


Becoming Jai and Veeru ft. Oxytocin

by Monamoni



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: All in a Day, Author Is New at Fic Writing, Banter, Bollywood, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Hindi Dialogues with English Translations, Horrible boss, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Sholay references, Slow Burn, What Is Fluff/Is This Fluff?, movie date
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monamoni/pseuds/Monamoni
Summary: Aman Tripathi’s horrible, no-good, very bad day, until Sholay leads him to the love of his life.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 151
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,  
> Please be kind, this is the first fic I have ever written. I have been devouring all the brilliant SMZS fics here for weeks now, and I have been living for all of your BRILLIANT works keeping the magic of this ship alive. I couldn’t help but try my hand at a first meeting fic, because I am OBSESSED with this property which has been like a flood in the desert of proper queer representation in Bollywood. Also, I can’t seem to focus on any of my original writing projects long enough to complete them right now. But somehow I was able to make great headway with this in a very short amount of time. So I am taking a leap of faith into accountability, and hoping you guys give me some feedback on what works for you and what doesn’t.

Aman Tripathi was having the worst day of his adult life. Little did he know it was about to turn into the best day of his entire life.

After a mere eight months at his cushy new job, right out of engineering college, he just got fired. Actually, he wasn’t entirely sure if he was fired or if he quit. Now that he thought about it, he’d been rather more dramatic than entirely necessary when he screamed at the CEO of his company, “ _Tu kya fire karega mujhe, naalayak kahi ka, chal main khud hi quit karta hu yeh startup ke naam pe bakchodi!_ ” _("You can’t fire me, you useless piece of shit, I’m quitting this bullshit pretending to be a startup myself!”)_ and stormed out of the office. He’d let his inner Amitabh Bachchan loose, like he’d always dreamed, but hadn’t thought through the second half of this film, the plot of which was likely surviving in the big city with no job and an expensive apartment, which was staring him down like a very unforgiving and critical audience. As the reality of his situation started to set in, he realized he should have gotten some clarification on the firing and quitting distinction before dramatically storming off; specifically, whether or not he would get the severance package to tide him over with rent and necessities while he looked for a new job.

Quickly on the heels of THAT sobering thought, came the utter of dread at the prospect of having to explain himself to his family back in Allahabad, whose sole source of happiness seemed to hinge on his ability to make them proud on personal and professional fronts in a never-ending vortex of expectations set by them and met by him. While it made him feel claustrophobic for most of his life, he couldn't deny that their love and support meant the world to him. Even though he knew, without ever having been told, that they would catch him when he fell and care for him no matter how much he stumbled, that knowledge of overwhelming, unconditional love only made it more difficult for him to test the boundaries of what would darken their eyes with true disappointment and heartbreak. He had worked hard all his life to never risk that, even if it meant hiding parts of his true self that may test that life-sustaining bond. The thought of his family reminded him that if he couldn't find another well-paid job soon, he’d inevitably have to move back to his hometown, a place that he worked hard to get out of in the first place, so he could live as fully and openly as he’d always dreamed. As panic begins to take him over, Aman briefly considers rushing back to the office, prostrating himself in apology at his boss’s feet, begging and bargaining for his position back. He knew the worth of his skills and how underappreciated and abused they were by the CEO, Rahul, but was his hurt pride worth getting broke while roughing it in this deluge of humanity that was Delhi?

It doesn’t take more than a moment for the source trigger for his newly-activated angry young man avatar to rise back up to the surface of his psyche. With renewed frustration leaking from every cell of his body, Aman kicked at a rogue pebble on the ground, imagining it to be the stupid, smug face of his toxic and incompetent ex-boss. Before he could go back down the rabbit-hole of anger and humiliation, he heard the thud of the kicked pebble hitting something ahead of him, before ricocheting off into traffic. As he immediately starts to work himself into mild mortification, Aman looks up to see that the pebble had hit some really cool sneakers. Sneakers that happened to be attached to someone who Aman could, in those first moments, only rationalize as his fever dreams made manifest. Because surely this vision of a tall, dreamy-eyed gorgeosity of perfect hair and fearless, pastel fashion could not be standing in front him on this most dreadful of days. Which must be why this stunning specimen of a male human didn’t even react to having a pebble kicked at him and was beatifically looking up, like Superman who can't wait to take to the skies. He could NOT be real, with that awe-struck look in those hooded, dark eyes like he was a grown-up Alice, who had finally found her way back to Wonderland. All Aman could do in the presence of this sexy alien from his dreams was turn his own impossibly widened eyes to follow the riotously dazzling man’s gaze up to whatever was holding his attention, above stray pebbles being chucked at him by unsuspectingly awkward, all-too-human boys like Aman. Turns out, it was one of the last quaint, old-timey single-screen movie theaters, much like the one in his hometown of Allahabad, where he grew up watching movies of Amitabh Bachchan and Shahrukh Khan. When Aman reads the “Currently Showing” listing lit up on the theater’s display banner, his suspicion that he might be dreaming becomes more plausible. The theater was screening his favorite Amitabh Bachchan movie, _Sholay_. The show was starting in 20 minutes.

The only thing that snapped him back to reality was a zipping auto-rickshaw squealing its horns and almost splattering him on the sidewalk in front of the movie theater. His eyes were already popping out of his head, and now his heart was loudly thudding from entirely too many different kinds of stimulation threatening his life and usually calm demeanor. In a desperate bid to regain some control and composure, Aman found himself hurrying towards the shelter of the movie theater’s entrance. Where the man he’d kicked with a horrible boss shaped pebble was also headed into, turning out to be a very real human being and not a comic book superhero; although, Aman could totally picture him in a cape and costume, looking just as unearthly yet real. As his features came into sharper focus, Aman audibly gulped when he noticed a criminally hot triangle tattoo at a spot between his ear and neck that was screaming at Aman to be kissed and nibbled on. Very real human being is also unutterably beautiful, Aman confirmed to himself with another gulp, trying to avoid getting uncomfortably hot and bothered in public, but almost choking on a relatively drier gulp than the last one. It was a sign of how scattered his mind was in this moment that it jumped from such physical explosion of sensations to pondering how the kind of beauty he was observing can only be a result of an overabundance of personality and soul that can’t but help etch itself into every muscle and mannerism of a person’s external appearance. Is thinking of poetry while halfway to getting aroused a superpower? Because if it is, maybe him and tall drink of a stranger might have a real shot at pulling off matching capes and costumes.

All too soon, Aman found himself on a collision course with this man that he was now openly ogling with his mouth slightly agape. He came dangerously close to bodyslamming into and maybe drooling a little onto someone he had already indirectly (albeit unnoticed) assaulted. He didn't intend to do so again in a more noticeable way. SO he quickly took stock of his surroundings, and made a beeline for the ticket counter. Aman remembered that he’d been planning to sneak out during lunch and check out _Sholay_ here on the big screen anyway when he had noticed a poster on the side of the building announcing a Bachchan retrospective week a few days ago. Not wanting to give in to his earlier pathetic impulse to snivel his way back into a toxic work environment, and hiding from the tsunami of sensations overpowering him at the seemingly inescapable presence of this fantastical creature, Aman decided his best option was to hide out in the darkness with his favorite comfort movie for a few hours. It seemed his feet had subconsciously led him to the one place he could escape from his current troubles, heal and emerge with the resolve and courage of his favorite heroes to deal with his problems.

Aman somehow managed to lose the frankly iridescent man he was trying to shield his annoyingly susceptible eyes and heart from in the crowd, which was jostling and failing to become a queue in front of the ticket window. Of course, even in the middle of a workday, decades after its release, a one-time screening of _Sholay_ commands a sizable crowd. Normally unruly crowds irritate the living daylights out of him. However, in this moment and in this crowd, which was sheltering him from his current overwhelming problems, he felt like he had a community of his own peers, whose love for this very special story brought them to this very time and place where he needed them the most. It was probably not special to each of them in the same context it was special to him, but it didn’t matter. Love is love, and he was happy to hide and heal in this particular bubble of love. He didn’t let himself think about how the very person he was trying to hide from is also in the same crowd and community, or wonder if he loved _Sholay_ for the same reason and context Aman did. Once he managed to get up to the front and ask for a single ticket, he fished out the cash in his wallet only to find that he was Rs. 10 short of the ticket price. When he offered his credit card instead, the lady gave him a sullen death glare, hoping he’d arrive at the point that this isn’t the kind of place that can even dream of being upgraded to be able to handle electronic transactions, as it stands on its last legs, held together by nothing more than inertia of the past and nostalgia.

“ _Madam, bas dus rupay hi toh kam hai, baki paise mein ticket de dijiye, main baad mein kabhi yahi office aate jaate de dunga_ ,” Aman pleaded haltingly, not believing how petty she was being, realizing belatedly that, as of today, that may not be a promise he can actually keep. ( _"Madam, I'm only short ten bucks, couldn't you just give me the ticket for what I have, I can give you the rest later on my way in and out of the office")_ He was hoping the lady recognized him from being a regular at the theater whenever they screened classic movies that Aman was born decades too late to have seen in their full glory in theaters. If the woman did recognize him, she did not acknowledge it. AT ALL. 

Her expression unchanging, the ticket-lady explained to Aman, with the most patient contempt, “ _Aap hi-fi officewalon ke liye dus rupiye shayad kuchh nahi hai, par hamare liye yeh theater chalate rehne ke liye har tinka zaroori hai. Iss din dopahar mein bohot mushkil se customer milte hai roz, aur aaj jab itne saare log aaye hai, aapko ghaate mein ticket bechne ki naubat nahi hai. Please aage nikliye, bohot log wait kar rahe hai_ ”, ending the exchange with a curt nod sideways, dismissing him. (" _Ten bucks may not mean much to you fancy office folks, but we need every penny to run this theater. We don't usually get many customers here in the middle of the day, but now that they so many have turned up, I am not really desperate to sell you a ticket_ _at a loss. Please move along, a lot of people are waiting their turn.")_

Aman’s heart sank at the prospect of this one shred of comfort this day had delivered being snatched away over small change. As the lady’s guilt-tripping rebuke began to drive home his recent state of unemployment and looming broke-ness, he felt someone’s hand gently tapping, then holding his exposed elbow, trying to catch his attention, and an accompanying voice, offered “ _Hey bro, can I help you out? I have some spare change if you need it…_ ” Without even turning to see who the good Samaritan was, Aman knew from the explosion of dopamine that the gentle brush of skin and sustained contact had ignited in his brain, that it could only be one person. The very same whose mere sight had rendered him dazed and delirious. Of course, his lightest touch would make itself feel in every cell of Aman’s body, and hurtle him towards an undoing and unraveling of epic proportions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left such kind and encouraging comments and kudos on the last one! Really looking forward to all of your thoughts on this chapter and especially the next. Stay tuned! ;)

An eternity of a moment later, when Aman had the courage to turn and meet the man’s eyes, the only words that came to him were, “Are you sure?” _What a dumbass question_ , Aman thought, his brain working fractionally faster than his mouth was delivering said dumbass question.

The man flashed the most disarmingly sweet smile that went all the way to his eyes, glinted off his nose ring along the way, and radiated right back to his delicately blush lips. _He_ _had a nose ring_ , Aman noticed for the first time, trying not to swoon into the firm, chiseled arm at his shoulder that looked more than up to the job of catching him. If the stranger thought Aman's question was a dumb one, he didn't say so and only chuckled and said, “ _Arrey chill bro, bus dus rupiye hai_.” _(“Come on, chill, bro, it’s only ten bucks.”)_

Then he took matters into his own hands, while Aman got stuck in the nose-ring to pretty lips loop, flashed the same unfairly luminous smile at the ticket lady, and said, “ _Yeh lijiye, madamji, isske ticket-ke baki paise aur mere ticket ke bhi. Aap sahi kehte ho, aaplog itna badiya kaam kar rahe hai aisi aitihasik jagah ko bachake rakh kar jahaa hum jaise ashiq phir se Jai or Veeru ke duniya mein aaj bhi kho jaa sakte hai_. _Aajkal ke muliplexo mein kahaan aisa pyara mahaul hota hai? Chaliye ab tickets de dijiye, inhey toh main hamesha sambhal ke rakhunga. Bohut special din hai na…_ ” _(Here you go, ma’am, here’s the rest of the money for his ticket and mine as well. You’re right, you guys do a magnificent job of maintaining this historic place where fans like us can come lose ourselves in the world of Jai and Veeru even today. Where’s this lovely atmosphere in today’s multiplex movie theaters? Now go ahead and give us our tickets. I will be saving these ones forever, it’s such a special day, you know?”)_

 _Damn, bro_ , Aman thought to himself, unconsciously mirroring the speech pattern of his savior even in his head, _is that much slathering charm entirely necessary?_ He was tempted to roll his eyes until he got distracted by the ticket lady’s scarily unamused, stoic face miraculously thaw, ever so subtly, into a tightly cornered but unmistakable smile. She ripped off two faded sheets from a ticket stub book with indecipherably overlaid words, and handed them both to the man who just might have made her day as well as Aman’s. As far as she was concerned, Aman was basically a blithering non-entity and the other man was worth two tickets worth of Aman. Maybe she wasn’t wrong. She too was only human, Aman justified in his head, and they were both clearly experiencing some sort of alien hypnosis.

He followed said alien, who was now holding his ticket hostage, away from the ticket counter and the pressing crowd on their backs, towards a relatively emptier area of the theater lobby. He couldn’t help allowing himself a secret eye-roll at what he just witnessed but was also somewhat touched and refreshed by the sheer sincerity in this impossible stranger’s voice when he talked about how he treasured this place and event. In Aman’s experience, sincere words didn’t always accompany sincere emotions. Often, they were manipulative, especially taking advantage of those who were raised to value the power of words like Aman was. Sometimes the manipulation is done BY the ones who raised him with that specific value system.

The other man did not stop moving until they were both at the door of the already darkened theater, handing both tickets to the doorman, quickly putting away the ripped stubs in the mystifying depths of his pastel clothing, confirming Aman’s suspicion that he actually meant his promise to the lady about treasuring the tickets. Definitely a real, live alien then, who finally turned back to look at Aman mischievously, telling the doorman, “ _Yeh mere saath hai_ ” _(“He’s with me”)_. Before Aman could puzzle out what the meaning of the mischief behind those dreamy eyes were, he found himself being grabbed by the hand suddenly and led into the comforting darkness of the hall, with a dizzyingly warm whisper in his ear saying, “ _Aao mere saath, mujhe pata hai perfect seats kaun se hai_ ” _(“Come with me, I know where the best seat in the house are”)_. From the few Hollywood movies Aman actually enjoyed, he knew, generally speaking, alien abductions rarely ended well for aliens and humans alike. He was working up the right balance of whisper and outrage to protest being manhandled like this, which he wasn’t NOT enjoying, when the stranger in the dark led him away from the seating floor to a corner that amazingly revealed stairs to what can only be Balcony seating. His wonder at this discovery made any protest he was planning fizzle out and he found himself giving in to the gently caring hand leading him up the dark, twisty and cramped stairs. And just like that, long before he ever admitted it to himself, Aman made his first unconscious commitment to following this Alice into any Wonderland up or down any Rabbit-Hole.

 _“As promised, THE best seats in the house, for THE best movie of all time!”_ declared his captor, finally letting Aman’s hand go, only to open them wide like Shahrukh Khan to present the inexplicably empty first row of the balcony, with an unimpeded view of the screen at the perfect elevation. For so many months now, Aman has been escaping to this theater every time he felt like his hostile work environment is about to blow his lid off, like he did this morning. Yet, in all these months, it never occurred to him to look up and see if there was a balcony level for more isolated brooding, since the ground floor seating was so sparsely populated as it is. Had he been missing out on spying this glorious creature from the utter lack of basic curiosity to look up and behind him this whole time? Was he always in such a rush to give himself over to the oblivion and escape of watching a movie in a dark and quaintly seedy theater? Was he really this miserable this whole time?

Suddenly missing the stranger’s touch already, Aman settled into the seat right next to the one in the very middle of the row that the other man had plopped into, even though the ENTIRE row was totally empty. When their upper arms comfortably settled against each other, Aman felt his entire being also settling into some sort of equilibrium he hadn’t felt all day, perhaps even longer. Before he could ponder further on what that meant, the owner of the reassuring upper arm broke into his thoughts, reclaiming his attention (something Aman suspected he is effortlessly but insistently good at) saying teasingly, “ _Abhi janab jab bharosa kar ke hamare saath iss uchayi tak pohuch hi gaye hain, toh apna naam bhi farmayenge? Main Kartik Singh, aur aap?_ ” _(“Now that the honorable gentleman has trusted me to lead him to such grand heights, may I be graced with a name? I’m Kartik Singh, and you are?”)_

A gentle giggle burst forth from Aman as he replied in kind, “ _Aman Tripathi._ _Yahan tak pohuchane ke liye hum zindagi bhar aapke aabhari rahenge._ ” _(“Aman Tripathi. I shall be forever grateful to you for delivering me to this juncture.”)_ This elicited a loudly burbling, delighted chuckle that brightened Kartik’s whole face, and potentially the entire balcony section of the movie hall, if that was even possible. Or maybe it was the actual screen coming alive to play the movie. Magic or coincidence, Aman was beyond distinctions at this point. This day was already proving to be the wildest ride of his otherwise meticulously careful life thus far, and he was already lost in the magic of Jai and Veeru well before the movie actually started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kinda short, but only because I have a much longer, and deliciously banter-y chapter ready to go next. This really should have been part of the last chapter, but I was holding it hostage to motivate me to finish writing the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The movie begins, so does the flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Settle in, this is a long one. I am going to take a breather after this one before posting again. So I hope y'all enjoy this, and as usual, keep those helpful comments coming. Not gonna lie, my fragile baby writer heart is living for all the validation!

When the movie finally started, Aman began to understand why Kartik may need a whole row to himself. Halfway through the long opening credit sequence of _Sholay_ , Kartik’s jumping and pointing at all the names on the screen somehow miraculously avoided landing on Aman. He came close to knocking their heads together when the words “Introducing Amjad Khan” appeared on the screen, and he started shaking Aman by his shoulder, leaning in to loudly say, _“Pehle hi role mein Gabbar Singh, yaar!” (“He played Gabbar Singh {iconic Bollywood villain} in his very first role, dude!")._ Kartik’s perfectly shaped, bushy eyebrows were raised so high in his forehead that they were threatening to escape his face and the Earth’s gravity.

Something about the utter cuteness of Kartik’s fanboy-ish flailing helped Aman slowly but surely unclench the part of him that had been so intimidated from the first sight of this human much-ness. Finally, the sheer chaos in his brain chemistry, caused by the undiluted blast of hotness and adorableness that was Kartik Singh, began to subside. Aman decided it was safe to take advantage of the relatively quiet and melodious background score to try and thank Kartik properly, sans nerves and goofiness.

_“Kartik, sach mein yaar, thank you so much. Tumhe nahi pata mera kitna zyada ghatiya-sa din jaa raha hai, bohut zarurat thi aise kuchh ghanto ki sukoon ki.” (“Kartik, for real though, dude, thank you so much. You have no idea what an incredibly terrible morning I’ve been having, I really needed a few hours of peace.”)_

Kartik somewhat reluctantly tore his eyes off the screen and stopped rocking back and forth in his seat to look at Aman in baffled amusement, and said, _“Arrey yaar, rakh tera thank you. Mujhse tumhara latka hua chehra aur kandha nahi dekha jaa raha tha. Lag raha tha ki ya toh tum roh paroge, ya phir uss bichare aurat pe toot paroge. Socha ek doosre se tum dono ki jaan bacha loo, roz kaha milta hai Amitabh Bachchan banne ka mauka? Lekin kaisa aadmi hai yaar, tujhe Sholay jaisi violent, dramebaz cinema dekh-ke SUKOON milta hai?” (“Oh come on, dude, hold your thanks. I couldn’t bear to see your droopy face and shoulders. It looked like you were either going to break down in tears or lash out at the poor woman. So I thought I might as well save both your lives from each other. It’s not like life gives you the chance to be Amitabh Bachchan every day. But, dude, what kind of a person finds watching a dramatically violent movie like Sholay CALMING?”)_.

To drive his point further, as if on a planned cue from Kartik himself, the movie devolved into a shootout scene with cops and robbers on a moving train. This being the first scene with Jai and Veeru, Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra, the iconic heroes of the movie, it immediately reclaimed Kartik’s attention and he resumed his excited bobbing in and around his seat. Aman felt a rushing urge to tell Kartik about his own Amitabh Bachchan moment earlier in the day, but held off on answering Kartik, who clearly wasn’t waiting for one. Aman didn’t want to miss the excitement of either the scene or the hilariously enchanting effect it had on Kartik.

Years later, Aman wouldn’t remember what he did most during those first magical hours with Kartik: watch _Sholay_ for the millionth time, yet the first time together or watch Kartik watching _Sholay,_ as if for him it’s the first time every time. Hhe would remember, however, that a story that he thought held no more new surprises for him, had still managed, on this fateful afternoon, to put him on the path to discovering a whole new story that was Kartik Singh. By the end of that thrilling train robbery sequence, they were both vibrating on the same frequency of sheer adrenaline and humorous banter shared by the on-screen thieving partners with hearts of gold. If Aman could see himself through Kartik’s eyes, he’d see a light and lightness emanating from him that Kartik suspected was such a rare sighting that he was almost afraid to blink. Perhaps it was that unguarded awe in Kartik’s eyes when Aman caught him staring, or the shared collective rush from the action sequence, that made Aman say what he said next.

 _“Violence ya drama se nahi, in dono ke beech jo gehra pyaar hain na? Woh love story dekhkar sukoon milta hai.” (It’s not the violence or the drama, you know how they share a deep love? It’s that love story that I find calming.”)_ Only for the second time today, Aman found that the words out of his mouth matched what’s in his head and heart. This time around, it wasn’t an outward explosive reaction to a million indignities, but a gentle articulation of a fundamental truth that set off explosions of a very different kind somewhere inside of him. _“Waise kaafi zyada comedy bhi toh hai, usse bhi dil halka ho jaata hai,”_ he quickly added, in an attempt to dilute the intense sincerity of his earlier statement. _(“Besides there’s so much comedy in it too, that lightens the mood as well.”)_

Kartik had clearly not been fooled by Aman’s attempt at deflection, because for the first time since they met, Kartik became truly still, and mused out loud, _“Haan, ab toh Shahrukh Khan ne bhi kah diya hai ki pyaar dosti hai. Aur Rahul-Anjali ki dosti se kaafi zyaada epic hai Jai-Veeru ki dosti. Sukoon aanewali baat toh hai sahi, kitna zabardast love story bhi hai yeh.” (“Yeah, even Shahrukh Khan has said Love is Friendship. And Jai-Veeru’s friendship is way more epic than Rahul-Anjali’s {from the movie Kuch Kuch Hota Hai}. That is indeed a calming thought, this is also such an amazing love story.”)_. A soft, curious look crept into Kartik’s eyes, as if some piece of a puzzle had just fallen in place for him and he was marveling at the full picture, suddenly unsure of what to do next. Aman could tell uncertainty is as rare a sight on Kartik as unburdened lightness is on Aman _._

Once again, as if to drive home Aman’s point and Kartik’s epiphany, the song _“Yeh Dosti Hum Nahi Todenge”_ _(“We will never break this Friendship”)_ started playing, and both Kartik and Aman couldn’t help singing along with the exuberant abandon of the only two people in the balcony section. If there were others seated in that section, they were either singing along with the boys or had assumed this was bound to happen as a part of this experience. An iconic song about a friendship so intense, that the lyrics could’ve been a translation of wedding vows from any number of cultures, traditions and languages, a fact that did not escape those like Aman. To Aman, and he hoped for Kartik as well, Jai and Veeru’s partnership was a rare reflection in Hindi cinema of a love that was loud and proud and unsullied by any of the trappings of toxic masculinity. A love that Aman hoped to share with someone with an intimacy and vulnerability that is never openly celebrated in movies or in real life.

Aman couldn’t remember when he had first realized that the images that appeared in his mind’s eye, while listening to his dad’s favorite classic love songs on the radio, were those of boys and not girls. It must have been during one of countless lazy afternoons in his childhood that he spent daydreaming in the courtyard of his family home in Allahabad. As he listened to the dulcet croonings of Hemant Kumar and Mohammed Rafi, the cool breeze blowing in from the river rustled through his hair, and rode the music and the lyrics right into his soul, where it proceeded to blow away the cobwebs of social shame and conditioning, leaving behind only the stark truth. A truth that increasingly seemed at odds with his mother’s teasing that someday when they were older, Aman would be married to his sister Goggle's friend from the neighborhood, Kusum. Neither Aman nor Kusum were asked if they wanted to be married to each other, and somehow they both knew that the idea would never, ever rise to the level of a question in their lifetime, and remain as it appeared, a foregone conclusion.

But the Tripathis, who were nothing if not loving parents to a fault, never lost an opportunity to remind their son how much they loved him and when, not if, he married Kusum, the wedding would be the most magnificent all of Allahabad had ever seen or will ever see. They wouldn’t settle for anything less than a fairytale happily ever after for their perfect little Guddu. Needless to say, none of these fairytales ended with two princes riding off into the sunset together. Aman had often been grateful to be alive at a time when the internet already existed and had made its way to towns like Allahabad, just in time for him to supplement the fairytale-based sex education that both his parents and his school peddled. No amount of Google or Goggle aided self-awareness, however, had helped him unlearn the passive shame and dread that societal expectations had baked into his very being.

By the time he first watched _Sholay_ with his family on a VHS tape and player, and heard the song _“Yeh Dosti Hum Nahi Todenge”_ for the first time, he was starved for even a shred of validation of his romantic dreams and hopes, reflected in the movies and songs that were actively shaping his idea of love. He had been transfixed by the easy affection and expression of love between two quintessential Bollywood heroes, and the powerful lyrics of this unabashedly romantic song. He knew then, with all the certainty of his teenage self that THIS, this is what the love he’d been dreaming of looked like, the kind of love that would be worthy of these words from the song,

_“Tera gham, Mera gham,_

_Meri jaan, Teri jaan,_

_Aisa apna pyaar…_

_Logon ko aate hain do nazar,_

_Hum magar, dekho do nahin.”_

_(“Your sorrow if my sorrow,_

_My life is yours,_

_Such is our love…_

_The world sees us as separate,_

_But look, we aren’t two but one.”)_

Now, years later, as Kartik joined him in singing this life-changing song, Aman once again felt like he had walked out of the nightmarish reality of his career right into a waking dream where his childhood ideal of love had been made flesh and was crooning the words that still defined love for an adult Aman. At some point, Aman stopped singing the words and dropped into humming, just so he could marvel at Kartik’s beautiful singing voice. It had such a rich texture, as if painted with all the colors of pain and joy in Kartik’s life, and it flew out from him as if the music and lyrics were merely wings for his voice to soar and glide lazily upon. Like the voices in the songs he would daydream to in the courtyard of many revelations and reckonings, past, present and future.

As the song ended with Veeru literally riding on Jay’s shoulder, despite numerous other available seating options, Kartik collapsed back into his seat, beset with helpless, infectious giggles. Aman couldn’t help getting sucked into the giggling vortex at the barely concealed implications of Veeru straddling Jai’s head and ruffling Jai's hair. Aman didn’t notice when Kartik’s giggles subsided because he was still giggling and gasping for air. He did, however, notice when Kartik let out a dramatic sigh, stretching out his long form over a few seats, as if swooning from inspiration or the vapors, and plopping his long legs onto Aman’s lap. It was anybody’s guess if he was then prophesizing or proclaiming, when he said, _“Maine toh soch liya hai, agar kabhi kisi sahi bande se shadi byah karne ka khushnaseeb hua toh mumbo-jumbo mantro ke jagah yeh gaana ga kar hi saat phere le lunga uske saath.” (“I‘ve already decided, if I’m ever fortunate enough to find the right guy to marry, instead of mumbo-jumbo mantras we’ll do the seven circles of the holy fire singing this song.”)_

As startled as he was finding Kartik’s legs in his lap, trapping him in more ways than he could count, Aman did not mind it in the least. He let out a relieved sigh of his own at Kartik’s casual mention of marrying a guy, not a girl. His sister Goggle, whose real name was Rajni, always joked that he had a broken gaydar, because it sadly didn’t get a lot of use growing up in a cheerfully repressed town like Allahabad. It also didn’t help that his family was a little too infamous in all the inconvenient ways. Aman, therefore, rarely had reason to peek out of his closet because it opened into yet another closet, the key to which was tied to the end of his mother’s saree, like the keys to all sorts of closets in his family.

Instead of drawing attention to Kartik’s confirmation or the belated realization that his hands had eagerly rested on Kartik’s legs when he delivered them onto Aman’s lap, Aman joked, in the spirit of the easy banter they had fallen into, _“Sahi hai, logo ko at least samajh mein aayega exactly kya wada kar rahe hai ek doosre se, woh bhi janam janam ke liye. Warna toh sab Sankrit mein terms and conditions wale page ko bina pare hi sign kar dete hai, aur phir pachhtaate hai. Waise gaane mein saat se zyada vaade hain na? Kitna chakkar khilane ka irada hain bande ko?” (“That’s cool, at least people will understand exactly what vows they are making to each other, especially since they are for all their lifetimes together. Otherwise, it’s like everyone just signs the Terms and Conditions page in Sanskrit, without reading it, and then they regret everything. Although, doesn’t the song have more than seven vows? How dizzy do you plan on making the guy, spinnin’ him around the fire?”)_

This time when Kartik bounced back up from his lazy, lounging position, it wasn’t towards the movie screen, but towards Aman, stopping barely an inch from his face. His legs in Aman’s lap, which were lazily resting before, but now seemed to have a new purpose – to pin Aman in place as Kartik held Aman’s gaze. With a mischievous, yet determined sparkle in those goshdarn warm and inviting eyes Aman could swandive into, Karthik said, in the sultriest tone possible, _“MERE saath shaadi kar raha hoga, toh ghumne ghumaane ki aadat hoke rahegi. Supreme Court se leke sasural tak, sab ko ghumakar mandap tak pahuchna jo hai. Kyun? Abhi se practice karne ka soch raha hai?” (“If he’s marrying ME, he’ll already be used to all the spinning and the circling. We’re gonna have to spin everyone from the Supreme Court to the in-laws before we make it to the wedding altar. Why? Thinking about practicing already?”)_

Aman doubted he would ever make it to this fantastical (and currently illegal) wedding if this audacious man, bridging the gap from fanboy camaraderie to flirtatious wedding planning in under 30 seconds, made him this dizzy WHILE SEATED. Was that a growl or a purr he heard in Kartik’s voice, right beside the words that seemed to dare Aman to step up and join in the most terrifying yet exhilarating ride of their lives? Overly-dilated pupils and all, Aman's face probably looked as flustered as his heart was, which was doing laps of his entire abdomen, because Kartik took his time swaying back into his lounging position with smug, satisfied look that Aman usually wanted to punch on any other face than this.

This face, though? He wanted to do so many other things to this face, not the least of which is to make it growl or purr again, and take his time finding out what other wordless sounds Aman can coax out of it. But for now, he collected his heart back up from his groin, and managed to defiantly hold Kartik’s gaze, letting him feel seen and watched and desired, like this gloriously, brazen man-child deserved. As the smugness in Kartik’s face began to be replaced by something like a blush, glowing even in the dark, Aman finally allowed himself a restrained smug smile of his own.

He had started the day by blowing up his career in defense of ideals that weren’t going to save him from destitution. He had had enough of being a slave to the whims and manipulations of others and the crashing waves of his own insecurities for today. If this excitable and cocky length of smarm and charm thought he could amuse himself by mistaking Aman for a shy and squirming delicate flower, it was about time Kartik Singh started to find out who he was dancing with. _Challenge accepted_ , Aman thought, _I am recently unemployed and I have all the time in the world for ghoomna and ghoomana (to spin and be spun)._

 _“Phere lene ki practice ya phir gaane par naachne ki?,”_ Aman asked in as casual a tone as he could manage, turning back to check on the movie they were supposed to be watching, if only to borrow some courage. _(“Practice circling the fire or dancing to this song?”)_

 _“Of course, dono, bro. Dekh, Punjabi launde se shaadi karega toh kisi bhi waqt, kisi ke bhi baraat mein naachne ke liye taiyyar rahiyo. Aur shaadi toh do aatmaon ka milan hai na? Toh aatmaon ke chemical bonding ke liye aag ke chakkar katna toh humara culture bhi hai aur science bhi,”_ explained Kartik with entirely too much pomp and flair, this time not caring if his limbs grazed, bumped or lingered on various parts of Aman. _(“Of course, both, bro. See if you’re marrying a Punjabi guy, you’ve got to be ready to dance at anybody’s wedding procession at any time. And marriage is a bonding of two souls, right? So both our culture and science demands that we circle the fire to bind two souls.)_

 _“Accha, toh ye bhi samjha djiye, Professor Singh, shaadi pe yeh Sholay ka gaana bajaana culture hai ya science?”_ asked Aman, unable to keep the burbling laughter from his face and his eyes, tickled by the delicious way Kartik’s brain worked, and impressed by his ability to turn Aman on by hilariously using a chemistry metaphor. _(“Very well, then, Professor Singh, could you also explain to me if playing this song from Sholay is a cultural or scientific part of the wedding?”)_

With a shit-eating grin of an uncharacteristically sociable cat that got the cream, Kartik made an exaggeratedly coy show of resting his head delicately on Aman’s shoulder, as he said, “ _Yeh gaana hi toh aag hai, baby! Jai aur Veeru ke dosti aur pyaar ki aag. Nachna ho ya phere lena, gaana toh hamesha yahi bajega, yeh Kartik Singh da wada hai, janam janam wala.” (“This song is the fire, baby! The fire of Jai and Veeru’s friendship and love. Whether to dance or to get married, this will always be the song playing, that’s Kartik Singh’s promise, in every life.”)_

Little did Aman know that Kartik would fulfill this promise and many others, of the song and the dance, and of the dizzying journey to the wedding at Aman’s family home. But that’s a story for another time, another tale. Right now, one awkward boy, with his heart tentatively in his eyes, stole a look at the beautiful giddy boy, whose head was reluctantly retreating from where it rested on his shoulder, and found it flashing a smile brighter than the movie screen back up at him, before they both returned their attentions to the hilarious shenanigans of two other boys in love across time and reality.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sholay continues (it's a long movie, y'all, not my fault), so does the banter, things get a bit...heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shubho Noboborsho to the Bong-babies of the fan-fam (juuuust under the wire across the globe)! Didn't mean to stay away for so long, but all the love in the last one deserved nothing short of a chapter worth your time. As always, open to any and all feedback! Thanks for helping me keep going!

The shift from “bro” to “baby” hadn’t escaped Aman, but it was all he could do to not let an answer to Kartik’s earlier growl or purr, unfurling inside of him, escape. He was itching to figure out if the transition was a side-effect of their goofy banter, swappable for effect in Kartik’s performative persona, or if it was here to stay. Aman had a personal preference for which he wanted it to be, but he did not want to let on that he did have one for Kartik to relish and experiment with. For now, he would content himself with a running mental tally.

Aman needn’t have worried because Kartik seemed to have decided for both of them that it was finally time to give _Sholay_ the attention it deserves, leaving the remaining ice between them to thaw naturally, rather than actively setting it on fire. Kartik sat leaning forward, preternaturally still, as Jai and Veeru made a hilarious prison break, only to land up back in one, until they get recruited for the mission of their lives. As if having set a storm brewing in the air crackling between himself and Aman, he was all too eager to escape the consequences by getting swept up in the fictional one on-screen. Aman didn’t need to be asked to follow him into the oblivion he was craving when he had walked into this inexplicably damp Wonderland in the first place.

It was only the appearance of the Dream Girl herself, Hema Malini, playing the oblivious chatterbox, Basanti, that had Kartik gleefully vibrating again. Personally, Aman found everything about Basanti rather annoying and problematic, and as legendary as Hema Malini was, her character in _Sholay_ was easily the one part of his favorite movie he wished he could tune out. It really threw him that Kartik was so excited at her appearance, when it elicited an involuntary groan from Aman. Kartik leaned over, without tearing his eyes off the screen to whisper to Aman in a voice dripping with awe, _“Yeh na bilkul meri girl-friend Devika jaisi hai. Ekdum fearless warrior queen, bro!” (“She is exactly like my girl-friend Devika. A totally fearless warrior queen, bro!”)_

So not only were they back to “bro”, Kartik had a _girlfriend_? Like the insufferable Basanti, no less? Maybe Goggle was right about his gay-dar being broken. She usually was right about most things, just not when it came to herself. If only Basanti were more like Goggle, _Sholay_ would be THE perfect movie. But perfection has nothing to do with true love, and his love of _Sholay_ was truer than most truths that defined his life.

Not wanting to draw attention to his actively deflating frame, Aman asked with a humorless, exhaled laugh which sounded more like a scoff, _“Achha, toh koi dusra bhi hai joh tumhari tarah aise bak-bak karke paka sakta hai? Kitne taange charne pare tere Basanti ke khoj mein?” (“Really, so there’s another person who can talk someone’s ear off like you? How many tongas did you have to ride before finding your Basanti?”)_

Kartik must have caught the icy draft under the question because he finally broke his sacred tryst with the movie screen, and turned his head back towards Aman, searching his face for a cause of the sudden seasonal change. He tentatively re-established the contact of their upper arms in a series of brief but slowly drawn out nudges, saying reassuringly to Aman, _“Oye, itni jaldi jalan bhi hone lagi, baby? Tu chinta mat kariyo, uska koi boyfriend hai, Ravi naam ka. Meri toh woh BFF hai, bro, like besties. Ab woh ladki hai, aur friend bhi. Toh zindagi mein bus ek aisi fierce girlfriend hona toh humara bhi banta hai. Lekin Dilli mein ab taange kaha baki rahe jo kisi ke saath romantic ride par jaa saku_ ,” he sighed, dramatically throwing himself into a half-swoon, sadly away from Aman’s arm. _(“Hey, you’re already getting jealous, too, baby? Don’t you worry, she has a boyfriend called Ravi. She’s my BFF, bro, like besties. Now she’s a girl and also a friend. So I feel like even I deserve at least one fierce girlfriend like her. But sadly there aren’t any tongas left in Delhi for me to go on romantic rides with someone.”)_

Aman was back to being confused about where he stood on the bro-baby scale, having lost track of the mental tally already, but he was reassured, as Kartik clearly intended. Or maybe it was just the way Kartik said “baby” that made Aman forgive and forget any number of things Kartik might torture him with. Aman felt the smile climb back up to his eyes, the one that seems to have settled in there for good, somewhere along the way between the door to the dark theater, and the climb up to the balcony. Aman let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, trying to disguise it as another scoff, but failing to hide the relief, saying, _“Chalo koi banda bach gaya, warna teri Basanti jaisi friend taanga chala rahi hoti toh tum dono ke bakbak se tang aakar woh kud jaata, aur bas wahi sab romance khatam.”(“Well, at least it saved some dude’s life. Otherwise if your Basanti-like chatterbox friend was driving the tonga, he would’ve been so sick of you both jabbering away, that he’d jump, and that would be the end of all romance right then and there.”)_

 _“Bro, tujhe Basanti se itna kya problem hai? Abhi toh keh raha tha, kitna mast comedy hai isme. Itni funny hai Basanti, aur upar-se kitni mast action heroine bhi hai isme. Soch, uss zamaane ke liye kitni strong female character thi. Kitni baar toh Jai aur Veeru ki jaan bhi bachati hain,”_ Kartik protests earnestly, with an unconscious pout, getting poutier the longer he dug his heels in for the spunky village belle. _(“Bro, what’s your problem with Basanti? You were just saying how this has such great comedy. Basanti is so funny, and such an amazing action heroine too, in this. Think, for the time period, she was such a strong female character. She even saves Jai and Veeru’s lives so many times.”)_ Aman couldn’t help but wonder if this is how Basanti looked to Veeru when he fell for her, an exploding ball of sunshine spewing righteousness from a singularly highlighted kissable source. 

Aman wasn’t one for following Veeru’s harass-and-wear-down playbook, but he did, if only for a moment, sympathize with the urge to do something grabby without waiting for express consent. Before he added another inexplicably problematic urge in Kartik’s presence to his personal shame-bucket, Aman croaked out in defense, _“Arrey yaar, problem Basanti-se nahi hai, usko jaise use kiya jaata hai na, woh sahi nahi lagta mujhe. Agar itni strong female character hai, toh itni bewakoof kyun hai? Itni hoshiyaar hai, apna taange chalane ka business hai, toh baar baar do laundo ke bakchodi me kaise phas jaati hai? Aur phir Veeru itna creepily usko harass karta rahta hai, aur phir jaake uske pyaar me bhi par jaati hai? Hadd hoti hai, yaar!”_ _(“Come on, dude, the problem isn’t with Basanti. I don’t like how she is used. If she’s such a strong female character, why is she such an idiot? She’s so savvy, has her own tonga-driving business, then how come she keep falling for the two guys’ pranks? And Veeru is constantly harassing her creepily, and then she goes and falls in love with him too? There’s a limit, man!”)_ By the end of his spiel Aman had worked himself up into a true indignation to point that he was leaning up and out of his chair, flailing his hands, not unlike Kartik.

Something about Aman’s righteous indignation made Kartik implode in suppressed laughter, coming up for air only to gently lift Aman’s chin and say, _“Kyun, mere strong baby ne kabhi jazbat mein, junoon mein, bewakoofi nahi kiya hai kya?”_ before going back to sniggering impishly _(“Why, has my strong baby never done something foolish while emotional or passionate?”)_ This forced the unwelcome memory of his outburst earlier in the morning, which resulted in his unemployment, back up to the surface of Aman’s thoughts. He’d definitely let his emotions get the better of him, instead of looking for a strategically better path to the same end. As rare as such emotional outbursts were for Aman, he suspected passion in him was something rarer to the point of non-existence. Also, Aman couldn't swat away the thought that maybe he should reinstate the bro-baby tally, since "baby" seems to be gunning for a comeback sprint.

The discomfort of the memory of events he was trying to escape from, however, only left Aman more irritated. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being condescended to about his opinion, something he had zero patience for today, even more than other days. With visible effort, Kartik suppressed his amusement as he caught on to the thin ice he found himself back on. Perhaps it was Aman rolling his eyes and collapsing back into his seat with a huff, that tipped him off. As they both turned their attentions back to the movie, Aman’s position of argument was being justified in yet another scene of Veeru trying to play Basanti for a fool, while Jai lazily snarks at both of their tomfoolery of a courtship. No wonder _Sholay_ Amitabh was Aman’s favorite Amitabh. 

Kartik’s strategy to appease a miffed Aman, seemed to be the same strategy he has been deploying all afternoon: to break through the awkwardness by dialing the physical space violation up by a notch, ideally taking Aman by surprise, so much so that he forgets to protest. Kartik's arm reached over across Aman’s shoulder and squeezed him, apparently no longer content with just lining up next to Aman’s comfortingly, before he conspiratorially whispered into Aman's ear _, “Mujhe kya lagta hai na, tujhse bas Jai ka dard nahi dekha jaa raha. Yeh jo woh apne harmonica ke love language mein yeh dosti wala gaana baja raha hota hai, aur Basanti un dono ke beech ghus ghus jaati hai, toh woh tere-waale love story pe raita phaila ke nikalti hai. Sach bata? Yahi reason hai na?” (“You know what I think, you just can’t bear Jai’s pain. Like he keeps playing the Yeh Dosti song in the love language of his harmonica, but whenever Basanti gets between the two of them, she leaves the love story you care about in a real mess. Tell me the truth, that’s the real reason, isn’t it?”)_

Aman would be damned if he didn’t stick to his guns about not letting onto Kartik exactly how many levels of Aman's inner workings he had unlocked or crashed through already. At this point, however, Aman was scraping the bottom of his inner machismo, trying to resist both the warm invitation to melt into the arm that spread across his frame, as well as surrendering to Kartik’s breathtakingly accelerated _Sholay_ -assisted undressing of Aman’s psyche. Aman desperately yanked at a semblance of an emergency brake of this runaway train by explaining dismissively, _“Tu bakwas band kar, waisi baat nahi hai. Harmonica toh Jai woh Radha ke liye bhi bajaata hain, toh aisa nahi ki uska love story nahi banta hai. Aur uska pyaar usko Basanti jaise pakati bhi nahi hai.” (“Shut your trap, it’s not that. Jai plays the harmonica for that Radha as well. So it isn’t like he doesn’t get his own love story. And his lover doesn’t even drive him nuts like Basanti.”)_

 _“Arre uss bhutni ki baat chhor! Samajh mein nahi aata hai ki woh ek doosre ko ghoor rahe hain ya haunt kar rahe hai. Dhang se toh baat bhi nahi karte hai ek doosre se, aur shaadi karne ki soch rahe the”_ interrupted Kartik, letting go of his grip on Aman’s shoulder with a gentle shove of incredulity. _(“Oh forget about that ghost-lady! I don’t understand if they’re stalking or haunting each other. They can’t even manage to have a proper conversation, and somehow they thought they could get married.”)_ Aman would begrudge the sudden loss of Kartik’s arms on him if he wasn’t horrified by Kartik’s disrespect of one of his all-time favorite actresses, Jaya Bhaduri Bachchan. He had long identified with the quiet intensity of the actress, whose eyes spoke volumes of emotions, the masterful restraint of which Aman idolized and perhaps unknowingly, emulated, like his life depended on it.

 _“Abbey, saale, Jaya-ji koh toh tu galti se bhi bhootni mat kahiyo! Woh vidhwa hai, bhayankar tragedy hua hai uske life mein, aur iss desh mein vidhwao ki kya halaat hoti hai pata hai na? Aur phir pyar karne ke liye sabko fizul ki baatein karne ki zarurat nahi hoti, Basanti kahi ke! Pyaar ho ya dard ho, dono Bachchan bohut kuchh aankhon aankhon mein hi bol daalte hai, bus aise hi nahi ban gaye dono Bollywood ke ultimate power couple!”_ _(“Yo, asshole, don’t you dare call Jaya-ji a ghost, even mistakenly! She’s a widow, who has gone through an unthinkable tragedy, and you are aware of how widows are treated in our society, right? Also, its not necessary to talk endless nonsense at each other when you’re in love, you Basanti-wannabe! Whether it’s love or pain, both Bachchans speak volumes to each other just through their eyes. They didn’t become the ultimate Bollywood power couple for no reason!”)_ Aman didn’t care how blindingly gorgeous or heart-meltingly adorable Kartik was, he was going to draw the deal-breaker line in the sand.

His passionate stand had the desired effect of wiping the cute but smug smile off Kartik’s face with an equally cute but cowed look as he mumbled, _“Nahi, bro, main kyun jaoon un dono par, mere toh dream maa-baap hai dono,”_ retreating guiltily into his seat. _(“No, bro, why would I go after them, they’re my dream parents.”)_ As satisfied as Aman was at his success at gaining the upper hand for the first time in this equation, he immediately felt a twinge of regret, fearing that he might have stopped the easy, breezy, flirty banter in its tracks. "Bro" had a decided lead over "baby" at this point, and Aman had tipped the scale against his preference. But he should have known that Kartik, the eager beaver to Aman’s smitten kitten, was allergic to lingering awkwardness or unresolved tensions.

 _“Par kya hai na, yeh widhwa ki tragedy odhke light bujhati rehti hai, woh Veeru ke unrequited love ke tragedy mein harmonica bajaata rehta hai, in dono ke beech pyar kabhi na tha. Sirf tragedy. Aur mujhe nahi lagta sirf dard ke bal par love story ban sakta hai,”_ he offered sheepishly, glancing quickly back and forth between Aman’s face and the movie screen, to make sure he wasn’t overstepping again, risking crashing into the frozen lake that was Aman's cold fury. _(“But you know what, she’s cloaked in her widow’s tragedy, turning down the lights, he’s playing the harmonica sadly in the tragedy of his unrequited love for Veeru. It doesn’t feel like what’s between them was ever love. Only tragedy. And I don’t feel like you can have a love story built entirely of pain.”)_

Aman felt like Kartik’s attempt at an appeasing clarification carried an implied invitation for Aman to ask something along the lines of, _“Accha, toh bataa, kaise banta hai love story?” (Really, please do tell how love stories are made?”)_ But this is one bait Aman was keen on resisting for the moment. For one thing, Aman was still desperate to maintain his sullen upper hand, and for another, as much as he was enjoying this blooming…whatever this was, he wasn’t remotely prepared for Kartik’s explanation. He knew enough already about Kartik Singh to know that the answer to that follow-up question may be more of a demonstration, one that would sweep Aman off the solid ground he had barely just regained by questionable means. Aman did, however, put a pin in that question to be revisited when he was feeling frisky enough for anything Kartik could throw at him. He wasn’t raised by a scientist of a father to not have a healthy amount of curiosity. Anything for scientific curiosity, and totally not to satisfy the ever-growing well inside of him that craved every ounce of Kartik Singh that he could get. It was totally all about the Science.

While Aman stoically maintained his gaze and attention on the movie screen, not giving Kartik or his counterargument an inch, it did dawn on him that he might have rushed to his doubts about Kartik’s emotional intelligence. Aman could almost be forgiven for mistaking Kartik’s outward persona and baffling dismissal of the nuanced performance of the venerable Jaya Bhaduri, as a sign of all bluster and no substance in Kartik Singh. But he couldn’t help but be deeply moved by the rawness in Kartik’s voice when he insisted that love cannot be based solely in shared trauma.

Aman wondered what traumas marred the path to love for this entirely lovable creature that he had to don this exhausting armor of extroversion. He didn’t have to cast too wide a net to hazard a guess at the readily available mires of abuse and mockery that those like Aman and Kartik can easily stumble into, wittingly or unwittingly. Aman was all too familiar with the many deceptively comforting faces that act as self-appointed gatekeepers of love, enforcing the binary rules of admission, with extreme prejudice and hatred. A part of him wanted to exact a price from everyone who might’ve visited any part of the depths of trauma that Kartik’s entire persona was constructed to dance around, in a relentless attempt to distract and deflect.

A bigger part of Aman was in awe of the dance itself, which seemed to summon some eldritch power of light and levity, hope and clarity, that wrapped itself around Kartik and whoever he drew into that charmed circle. A dance that Kartik had pulled Aman into, without any preface, and despite all of his fears and inhibitions, Aman never wanted to stop dancing, even if his eyes were ever-wary of the world outside. He just needed to learn the movements and the rhythm, and he suspected he wouldn’t find a better or more willing teacher and partner than Kartik Singh, who could make Aman surrender to the music. Perhaps, they could start with the slow lament of the harmonica.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end, just like Sholay, but there's still much of the day left for the boys to explore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, but these keep getting longer, and I am not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Let me know, pretty please?

Aman’s surly cold shoulder thawed as hoots and whistles erupted from the seats below, prompted by the on-screen appearance of a disembodied pair of boots, pacing back and forth along a dramatic stone ledge, dragging a belt, inquiring intimidatingly, _“Kitne aadmi the?” (“How many were men were there?”)_ For the better part of an hour, Aman had entirely forgotten the crowds he had to get through to get the tickets, most of whom seemed thankfully unaware of the balcony section as well. Before the loud public reaction to the appearance of Gabbar Singh could die down, Aman found that Kartik was jabbing his index finger in the general vicinity of Aman’s mouth. Seeing how Kartik’s eyes were still glued to the screen reverently, Aman could only imagine this was an attempt to head off any ideas Aman might be getting about adding to the clamor below, that was drowning out the iconic soliloquy of a psychopath. Now Aman enjoyed Gabbar’s unhinged monologuing as much as the next _Sholay_ fan but he was clearly nowhere close to Kartik’s level of devoted immersion. Especially not today, when Aman couldn’t help noticing some similarities between his recently vacated hostile workplace and the open office layout of Gabbar’s toxic enterprise.

Kartik may not have been too far off in anticipating Aman’s intentions. Aman had opened his mouth to make some excited scene-chewing remark, not in the least to alleviate the tension created by his own silent refusal to take Kartik’s last bait. Relying on his peripheral vision, and no other visual guidance, Kartik’s shushing finger was closer than ever to its intended destination, but sadly didn’t clear the radius of Aman’s open mouth and teeth when startled by the jabbing, Aman snapped them shut. Not only did Kartik not tear his eyes off Gabbar, even in surprise, but he resisted what should have been a natural instinct to yelp in shocked pain. Kartik’s only natural reaction was to quickly retrieve his bitten finger from Aman Tripathi’s guilty maw. His freshly gnawed upon finger, however, proceeded to find the tip of Aman’s nose. Finding it with a lot more precise navigation than before, Kartik landed a damp boop on Aman’s nose, as if in recognition of Aman shutting up kindly. Mercifully for Aman, Kartik then retrieved his wayward hand and set it to the very important job of holding up his own entranced face, as Gabbar played Russian Roulette with his employees. The nose-booping would normally make Aman’s heart go aflutter if Kartik hadn’t followed it up by whispering along with Gabbar in his post-murder glory, _“Jo dar gaya samjho mar gaya” (“He who is afraid, consider him dead”)_. As it stood, Aman wasn’t entirely sure if the tickling sensation radiating from his nose to the rest of his body was lust-based butterflies or fear-based goosebumps.

Kartik emerged from his silent internship at Gabbar Inc. as the story moved abruptly to the inevitable Holi song of any Bollywood staple worth its salt, only to find Aman looking at him with slack jawed horror. Kartik’s face lit up with a satisfied grin, as if any attention from Aman of the unblinking, wide-eyed and mouth agape variety was a resounding and encouraging success in his book. Kartik proceeded to sing along with _“Holi ke din dil khil jaate hai” (“On the day of Holi, our hearts blossom in joy”)_ rhythmically shimmying his shoulders into Aman’s, like he hadn’t just diabolically channeled a murderous psychopath seconds ago. Aman’s gaping inability to sing and shimmy along with him, unlike the last song, made Kartik roll his eyes and his whole head in frustrated confusion, and he asked, _“Abey yaar, ab Holi se bhi problem hai kya? Tujhe Sholay pasand bhi hai ya nahi?” (“Oh come on, man, do you have a problem with Holi too? Do you even like Sholay?”)_ Kartik daring to question Aman’s _Sholay_ fanboy credentials was enough to snap Aman out of his own head-spiral, back to irritated defensiveness.

Aman made a show of pointedly looking back at the song playing on the screen, just as Veeru sidled up to Basanti and pawed at her uncouthly, for what felt like the millionth time. At this precise moment, however, even the song lyrics conspired to celebrate the occasion being the perfect cover to get away with such behavior. Aman then looked back at Kartik, and responded sarcastically, _“Nahi, Holi se kya problem ho sakti hai kisi ko? Rang lagane ke naam par chhed-chhaad karne ka tyohar toh yeh hai nahi, bas apna toh Pride Mahotsav hai yeh, hai na?” (“No, who can have a problem with Holi? It’s not like it’s a festival of harassment and molestation in the name of smearing colors. It might as well be our Pride Festival, right?”)_

Even as the words poured out of him, Aman realized he must be proving Kartik’s accusation for him. Aman braced for either gloating or judgment or worse – the revoking of his fanboy card as well as the groove between them it had facilitated. Instead, he was blinded by Kartik Singh’s widening eyes, like something Aman had just said blew his mind. Kartik snapped his fingers, pointed at Aman’s face, and whispered with a reverential awe in his voice, “ _OMG, Pride Mahotsav, kya sahi kaha tune!” (“OMG, Pride Festival, you’re so right!”)_ This response was so far from what Aman was expecting that he once again lost his resolve for sullen snark, and his mouth literally fell open once again.

Kartik snatched the opportunity to repurpose his pointing finger to reach out and gently lift Aman’s chin, prompting Aman to clamp his mouth shut a little too snappily. Aman was tempted to protest the misappropriation of his snark, to clarify that he was joking. However, the finger-nibbling incident was a little too fresh and tempting in his memory, and he was a little nervous about opening his mouth again, endangering that pesky lithe finger. He looked half-glowering into Kartik’s eyes, hoping to drive home the sarcasm non-verbally. What he was met with, however, was a soft melancholy in Kartik's eyes, as if he wished Aman’s mouth hadn’t been so passively compliant. Also, Aman realized, Kartik was looking at Aman’s mouth, not his eyes. _Oh, fuck me,_ thought Aman, not knowing if it was a wish or a curse or both.

Before Aman’s mouth could actually betray him and utter the words in his brain, Kartik had lazily trailed his gaze over what felt like all of Aman’s face before settling on Aman's eyes. Aman didn’t know if his own eyes had betrayed him instead of his mouth, or if Kartik was overcome with embarrassment at his lingering gaze because the next thing he knew, Kartik was snatching away his hand from Aman’s face, and physically retreating as far away from him as he could in his own seat. Kartik then proceeded to run his palm over his own face, effectively pulling the curtains of coy mischief back down over his eyes.

Something twisted inside of Aman witnessing this sleight of hand. He felt teased and then robbed of the view of a deep well of tenderness and vulnerability, that Aman had only guessed at so far. Aman had heard the saying that still waters run deep, something he had embodied by using stillness to hold and balance the turbulent waters within himself, that perpetually threatened to drown him. He could see himself in the silvery sheen of frozen lakes of colder lands, where his closest connection to humans was to stay firm as they skillfully skated over his icy surface, satisfied with their own abilities rather than wondering what lay beneath their feet.

Kartik, however, Aman mused, felt more like the ocean, observed and appreciated by most from the safety of the shore, content with gasping from a distance at the sparkling play of colors as the sun rose and set over him. For his own part, Kartik seemed content with repeatedly drawing himself up into spectacular waves and crashing at their feet, expecting nothing but smiles and joy in return. His own joy seemed to be in challenging himself to grow more magnificent and crash harder, and liberate even more joy and smiles as he washed over the world’s pain. But if Aman were to brave the highest of waves and swim past the last one, he thought he might find uncharted depths of life and awe-inspiring storms of passion that thrived and raged without an audience. That sight would be all Aman’s to witness. He just had to brave the waves. As much as Aman was enjoying the gentle surf at his feet and the sunrises and the sunsets, not for the first time today, he wished to go for a swim to peek beneath the twinkling surface of Kartik Singh, and drown out the noise of the whole world.

While Aman was swimming around in his own thoughts, Kartik had realized that Aman had dropped all pretenses of watching _Sholay_ and was ogling him instead. With a rising blush in his long neck and a shy, yet ever-mischievous smile, Aman's heart warmed as a flustered Kartik attempted to focus on the movie enough for both of them. Or perhaps, it was because Gabbar Singh and company had gate-crashed Holi, and Kartik’s girlfriend Basanti was about to turn the tide. Aman only tore his gaze away to check what was happening on-screen when he noticed that both Kartik’s smile and the color in his cheeks and gorgeous neck had suddenly slipped off much faster than they had crept on. The movie had taken a flashback detour to the tragic backstory of Gabbar Singh’s massacre of the Thakur’s family, and his own brutal mutilation at the hands of a vengeful psychopath.

This was a part of the story of _Sholay_ that no amount of curiosity about Kartik Singh could ever distract Aman from being utterly consumed by, body and soul. Perhaps it was because the sweet domestic bliss and casual family bantering of Thakur’s family, looking forward to his return, reminded him of his own family in Allahabad and their chaotic affection towards each other and himself. Watching Thakur’s grandson’s devoted playfulness with his uncle reminded him of his own uncle, Chaman, a man whose generous heart, imaginative spirit, and child-like wonder made him both a favorite playmate and a safe haven for the Tripathi children. Perhaps it was knowing the impending fate of this family, which was an idealized version of his own, that for the first time in a long time, Aman thought of the Tripathis and their courtyard with a longing ache for the chaotic comfort of home, instead of the usual burden of dread and disappointment.

He only looked away when the violence began. Only then did he remember that he had meant to investigate what had started to drain the color from Kartik, which Aman now noticed, had taken an alarming form. Kartik had his right hand balled up in a white-knuckled fist, pressed to his mouth, seemingly attempting to stifle some kind of anguished noise from escaping. His glistening eyes, ragged breaths and shivering shoulders, however, betrayed his private turmoil. Aman desperately wished Kartik had been leaning on the armrest between them so that for once, Aman could be the one to lean into Kartik, casually but reassuringly. Perhaps it was intentional on Kartik’s part to hold his upper body as far away from Aman as possible while he weathered this storm alone. Aman couldn’t help but feel guilt at his silent wish moments ago, to the powers that be, for another peek behind Kartik’s curtains of cocky clowning, only to have his wish granted so brutally at Kartik’s expense.

He also couldn’t help wondering what it was about the on-screen narrative that had stripped Kartik of all his literal and metaphorical layers of neon armor, reducing him to a naked babe, abandoned in the woods, as gale force winds uprooted trees all around him. Was it the senseless brutalizing of innocent lives at the hands of his psychopathic idol? Kartik had to know that was coming, right? Or could it be that the image of a big, happy family, which had elicited a longing in Aman, had perhaps triggered something more traumatic in Kartik’s memory? Perhaps it had reopened wounds and scars that were either inflicted by or were burying the memories of a lost family?

In his primal and desperate urge to hold and comfort Kartik, Aman instinctively reached out his hand towards the closest part of Kartik that was available to him. Which happened to be Kartik’s knees, somewhere along his long limbs that Kartik had clearly lost track of in his retreat. The fingers on Kartik’s other hand, however, were digging into those knees in yet another white-knuckled grasp, not unlike when Aman braced himself with a diversionary pain, whenever faced with a needle at the doctor’s office. Aman’s own fingers found the individual ridges of those cold yet smooth knuckles, before his palm spread over them warmly in a gentle squeeze. He wanted to stroke the top of Kartik’s wrist soothingly, where his thumb rested naturally, but Aman was too afraid of startling Kartik out of his fugue. Also, he wasn’t entirely sure that it wouldn’t be crossing some invisible line of consent, especially given his earlier passionate stand about harassment.

At first, it seemed Kartik hadn’t even noticed Aman’s hand on his own. They both sat there in the silence that, for the longest time, was only broken by the creaking of a swing, as Gabbar unleashed his unrelenting evil on the Thakur’s unsuspecting family. Aman squeezed Kartik’s hand a bit harder as his own heart ached at the sight of Thakur coming home to the horror. Aman couldn't banish from his mind the unthinkable loss any one, much less all, of his own loved ones back home in Allahabad. It was only when the Thakur forged ahead into Gabbar’s lair in a blind passion to exact revenge, only to pay yet another heavy price, that Aman heard Kartik’s breathing becoming more even and felt Kartik’s grip on his knees loosening as the ridges of his knuckles began to soften.

However, it wasn’t until the narrative had returned to the current timeline and yet another iconic song was upon them that Kartik finally looked down to where Aman was holding his hand. Before Aman could remove it, Kartik flipped his own palm up to grasp Aman’s and began tugging at it rhythmically to Helen’s hips, as she belly-danced around the campfire to the song _“Mehbooba Ae Mehbooba” (“Beloved O Beloved”)_. Given that it seemed to be Kartik’s mission to sing along with every song in the movie, he wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be an invitation for Aman to take the role of Helen and dance for him seductively. Perhaps that was just wishful thinking on Aman’s part because this far into this long a movie with this capricious companion, his brain was taking flights of fancies that it had never even carefully hopped at before. Or perhaps, he was just unspeakably relieved that Kartik’s characteristically dazzling smile had finally broken through the dark clouds, and he could almost be persuaded to dance in celebration.

Aman extricated his hand from Kartik’s with some playful swatting, which only freed up Kartik to wiggle his own hips in imitation of the inimitable Helen, first in his own seat, and then more freely up and down their row of seats, but mostly around Aman. Aman would be more embarrassed and less amused by this if he couldn’t see people losing their minds, doing much the same, more loutishly in the section below. At least Kartik’s attempt highlighted the agility of his chiseled frame. Despite the fit of giggles Aman couldn’t hold back, he suspected his eyes probably reflected some fraction of Gabbar’s frankly icky lustful leering. Aman silently prayed that on himself, it looked more adorable than creepy, and was exactly what Kartik needed to see.

As the song ended in explosions heralding the arrival of the lead pair, Aman tossed a dramatic air kiss at Kartik of the drunken lout variety. Kartik, who was making his way back to his seat caught it from thin air only to stab himself in the heart with it as he collapsed next to Aman, whose giggles had now graduated to a fully open laugh that made his head tilt back. Aman recognized, not for the first time this afternoon, that whatever peace and oblivion he may have had in mind for the three hours or more of the movie when he stepped into the theater, he was getting none of it and yet so much more.

For what was left of the movie, they managed to silently but companionably escape together into the stark landscapes, and inhabit the lives, loves and losses of the iconic, if exceedingly idealistic characters of _Sholay_. They looked back at each other, only occasionally, when one of them silently pointed out to the other instances that support the finer points of their unresolved argument. Aman wasn’t above audibly scoffing every time Basanti went on some airheaded rant, or Veeru creepily took advantage of her naivete, just before or after she would claim she is NOT naïve and is NOT in the habit of speaking nonsense, proceeding to rant nonsensically. Nor was Kartik above clutching his heart and making an exaggerated sad puppy face or mouthing silently, _“Aww poor baby!”_ every time Jai took a break from his swanky deadshot snark and swagger to play the harmonica morosely, or actively sabotaged Veeru’s attempts to woo Basanti. Not wanting to concede each other’s points, Aman met Kartik’s teasings by rolling his traitorously smiling eyes, while Kartik dramatically facepalmed with strategically separated fingers so he could peek at Aman with a cheeky grin. Neither of them, however, attempted to resume the banter in earnest, in case one of them had to address the storm cloud, the blinding downpour and hands that found each other in the darkness. Perhaps they both knew better than to assume that the storm had passed completely .

It was a measure of how taut and momentous the final action sequence of _Sholay_ was that, in anticipation of Jai’s daring rescue of Veeru (and Basanti, who was doing a fine job of keeping herself AND Veeru alive), that Kartik didn’t sing along to the coercive dance number. Aman was thankful for that, because he didn’t want to be distracted from the movie for yet another impassioned speech at Kartik’s inappropriate celebration of the ONE TIME Aman truly sympathized with Basanti’s plight. At some point between Gabbar’s cruel and unusual torture of Basanti and Veeru, and Jai showing up just in time to pull off a rescue, Aman felt a familiar sensation of falling away from his body and into himself, as he watched Jai manipulate Veeru so he could sacrifice himself in order to secure Veeru’s future happiness with Basanti.

No matter how many times he watched _Sholay_ , Aman was never prepared for the impact of Jai being the only character on _Sholay_ to ever visibly bleed in death. As Jai lay dying in Veeru’s arms and declared that he was ready for death, with no regrets and no fear, having spent every waking and now dying moment with the love of his life, his friend, Aman lost himself in Veeru’s anguished screams. Screams and sobs and wailing that echo and mingle with his own, which only escape from him in the safety of the noise-cancelling void inside Aman. This is a place that can contain the boundless unquietness of his longing for a love like that. A love that he would bleed that brightly and die that contentedly for. A love whose loss could drive him to devastate the greatest of evils that would dare take it away from him. This was a place he didn’t visit willingly, but found himself safely gathered in whenever he was in danger losing his balance on the tightrope of masculinity and emotions.

By the time Aman sauntered sluggishly back to the surroundings and sensations of his physical body, the movie ended poetically in the same place it started – at the train station with Veeru’s train pulling away from this one fateful stop on his journey. Aman always thought that the end of _Sholay_ was the true beginning of Veeru and Basanti’s love story, because only then does Veeru have a place in his heart for a new partner and a new love. His annoyance at their courtship notwithstanding, Aman did appreciate the worldless moment between Veeru and Basanti before the train pulled away, where they hold each other in the aftermath of a shared trauma. Aman wondered what Kartik had to say about the future of THAT love story being built of pain and loss. As the credits began to roll, Aman noticed that Kartik was squeezing Aman’s hand with the same look of concern that must have been on Aman’s face when Kartik had emerged from his own fugue. For the first time, Aman wondered what his physical body did when he went to his quiet place. Kartik answered that question by wiping the inexplicable wetness on Aman’s face with feather-light brushes of his long graceful fingers. _Right_ , Aman thought _, so THAT’S what happens_. Kartik’s other hand still gripped Aman’s, as if between his two hands, Kartik was suddenly and newly unsure how much physical contact was acceptable.

Aman wouldn’t remember how long they stayed in that tentative position, a moment or an eternity. He would only remember the shattering of that moment by the terrifyingly sudden glare of a flashlight in their faces by a theater attendant, signaling them to vacate the premises. Aman was, however, painfully certain that it was him and not Kartik who snatched his hand and face away, jumping to his feet sideways and away from Kartik on instinct. He would always remember this because of the crushing shame he felt when he saw the look of disappointment, mixed with hurt sadness in Kartik’s beautiful eyes, when Aman asked tentatively, _“Chalein?”(“Let’s go?”)_ and Kartik got up with a huff, mumbling, _“Haan, aur rakha hi kya hai yahaan?”(“Yes, what’s even left to do here?”)_ as he brushed past Aman, brusquely grazing Aman's shoulder on the way out.

Aman had imagined that look on the faces of his parents every time he tried to work up the courage to come out to them, but he had always lost his resolve at that unbearable image. He had never imagined that the same look, on the face of someone, who had been a stranger mere hours ago, would feel just as unbearable. Only this time, it was because Aman often lacked the courage to BE out and proud. In that moment, Aman truly grasped that shame was an abusive parent of your own making, one that you think can be a guiding principle to live by, but only serves to amplify and be amplified by your fears. Before he could ever come out to his biological parents, he had to outgrow the need for the unshakable parent that was his shame, healthy or otherwise, to show him the way.

Being a head shorter than Kartik, Aman struggled to keep up with the taller man’s stride as they navigated the crowd pouring out of the theater. Aman was starting to suspect that the flow of the crowd was about to deliver him straight into the main road traffic, when a now-familiar grasp fished him out and into a side street around the corner from the movie theater. When Aman met Kartik’s eyes once again, he was relieved to see that they were mostly back to their normal twinkling self, perhaps because he was amused by Aman’s ruffled and bedraggled “I-almost-died-of-stampede-and-traffic” face. In the glare of daylight, however, it seemed they were both faced with the glaring inevitability of having to part ways, and neither of them were willing to begin that process.

Aman’s loudly growling empty stomach turned out to be infinitely more decisive than both of them. Kartik’s face broke into a delighted smile, asking _“Meri ungli chabakar bhukh nahi mita? Chhole Bhature chalega? Delhi ka best? Warna aur bhi nau ungli baaki hai mere…” (“Gnawing on my fingers didn’t sate your hunger? Will Chhole Bhature do? The best in Delhi? Otherwise I do have nine more fingers left...”)_

 _“Ab woh kaha hai?”_ asked Aman with fake exasperation and disbelief, to cover for the renewed embarrassment at the finger-nibbling that apparently didn’t go as unnoticed as he had hoped. _(“Now where is that?”)_

 _“Ungli ya Chhole Bhature? Kyun, abhi bhi bharosa nahi hai?”_ asked Kartik, only half-jokingly as he made jazz hands to flaunt the apparent delectability of his fingers. _(“Fingers or Chhole Bhature? Why, you still don’t have trust in me?”)_ It saddened Aman that an unsurety had crept into their banter.

 _“PAISE nahi hai, khaane ke ya wahaan tak pahuchne ke. Bhul gaye dus rupiye ka karz?”_ said Aman, sheepishly. _(“I don’t have MONEY, for food or to get to the food. Did you forget the ten bucks I owe you?”)_

 _“Oho, itna BARA karz toh Aman Tripathi tujhe mere haathon se Chhole Bhature khaakar hi chukana parega. Bus haath hi mat khaa jaana, bare kaam ke hai. Aur rahi baat pahuchne ki, chal milata hu tujhe meri Dhanno se,”_ Kartik said cheerfully as he guided Aman by the shoulder down the street, leading him to what turned out to be their steed, Kartik’s motorcycle. _(“Oh my, you can only pay off such a HUGE debt by eating Chhole Bhature from my very hands, Aman Tripathi. Just try not to devour my hands, they are quite useful. And as far as getting there is concerned, come let me introduce you to my Dhanno [Basanti’s tonga-pulling horse in Sholay]”)_

 _“Yeh hai teri ghodi?”_ asked Aman, excited and terrified at the same time. _(“This is your horse?”)_ He had loved playing on his father’s dusty old Yezdi bike, one that his father was fond of telling stories about riding on the way to a grand romantic gesture, but never actually riding in Aman’s memory. Kartik's bike looked hardly newer, albeit significantly less dusty. _“Horsepower, baby”_ cooed Kartik cheekily, as he struggled to get the bike started. Once it finally grumbled into ignition after many worryingly sputtering noises, Kartik wordlessly jerked his head in an unmistakably flirtatious invitation for Aman to hop on.

Perhaps it was the reappearance of “baby” in their banter or just the utter exhaustion of today’s emotional rollercoaster, but when Aman climbed on behind Kartik, he confidently grabbed Kartik by his waist. He allowed his entire upper body to melt onto Kartik’s back while his head rested on Kartik’s shoulder, just shy of his neck. As Aman closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the continuing whimsy and whirlwind of Kartik Singh, he dragged his chin up just enough to whisper into Kartik’s ear, _“Aankhey band kar lu toh yeh khatarapanti bilkul taange jaisa lagta hai. Chal, kar le apni khwashish poori, Basanti.”(“If I close my eyes, this jankiness feels exactly like a tonga. Go on, fulfill your dreams, Basanti”)_

Aman couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt Kartik’s back and neck erupt in goosebumps as Aman snuggled in for safety and comfort, but mostly, definitely for safety. But Aman was sure, his ears were pressed snugly between Kartik’s shoulder blades, that he could hear a growly purr rumbling around inside Kartik when he whispered back, _“Yes, baby, yassss”_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aman is hangry, Kartik shares Chhole Bhature and then some, about 99% less Sholay references than the last few chapters...for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all,  
> Since I am barely maintaining a once-a-week update schedule, I will hold the apologies for another super long chapter. I did mean to upload this a couple of days ago, but I needed a sadness break when I heard about Irrfan Khan.  
> Hope you like where this goes beyond Sholay, which is scary new territory for me. Feel free to put me out of my anxiety, please?  
> As always, thanks for all the lovely feedback that keeps me going with this. I can't begin to tell you how much y'all make my day!

If Aman was harboring any fantasies about snuggly, romantic meanderings on the motorbike, with the wind in his hair, they were quickly dashed as Kartik seemed to have chosen the most congested streets of Delhi to arrive at his infamous _Chhole Bhature_. Aman was rather amused by Kartik’s grumblings and growlings at oblivious and sluggish end-of-workday traffic and pedestrians. Aman had begun a silent game with himself to distinguish the growls of the motorbike from the echoing growls that heralded an emerging curse from deep within Kartik. Aman also suspected that Kartik could feel Aman’s smiles pressed on his back whenever he rattled off exceedingly creative and long-winded _gaalis,_ because by the time Kartik was done, the offenders were long gone, and the latter end of the verbal fireworks could only have been for Aman’s amusement alone.

What little comfort Aman was deriving from lightly snoozing against Kartik’s back, totally for safety reasons, also came to multiple sputtering halts. The traitorous _Dhanno_ repeatedly stalled out during their stop-n-go progress, eventually forcing Aman to peel himself off Kartik’s firm but cuddly back. At some point, Aman’s body made the wiser but sadder choice for actual safety by disengaging his arms from around Kartik’s waist and securing himself to a grabbable part of the bike itself, rather than the volatile, frequently flailing driver. The only grumblings to keep Aman company from then on were the mechanical kind and the painful ones in his empty stomach. 

Aman almost missed their arrival at yet another non-descript, shop-lined, cramped side street, latest among many such they had been wading through since they left the movie theater. He didn't get off the bike when Kartik did, thinking this was yet another pit stop in the ongoing coaxing and cajoling of their reluctant steed to carry on. His only clue was Kartik spreading his arms to grab the length of the bike to pull it to a stand. Conveniently, Kartik sidled up within an inch of Aman, while grabbing the back grip that Aman had exchanged Kartik’s equally firm waist for. No one was more confused than Aman, except perhaps Kartik, when his instant reaction to that face and body so close to his own elicited an instinctive recoil, especially since Aman had spent a not insignificant amount of the ride trying his best to become a new full-back tattoo, joining who knows how many others on the body of one Kartik Singh.

 _“Kya hua? Sirf ungliyan pasand hain chabane ke liye? Mera sar, naak, chehra nahi pasand?”_ asked Kartik. _(“What happened? You only like my fingers to chew upon? You don’t like my head, my nose, my face?”)_ Although Kartik’s tone implied that the hurt look may be performative this time, Aman still hated to see that thinly veiled disappointment in those eyes, which were even more floaty and dreamy up close.

 _“Chhole Bhature khilane ka wada kiya tha na? Ab yeh kya dhokha hai?,”_ said Aman, with a shy smile, and mock annoyance, playfully shoving Kartik away enough to climb off the motorbike. _(“You promised to feed me Chhole Bhature, didn’t you? What is this betrayal?”)_ What he really, REALLY wanted to say was yes, he liked everything in the general vicinity of Kartik’s face A LOT, thank you very much. But he shelved that under a different category of hunger, one that will have to wait for another time and another place. For now, his tummy was looking forward to something greasier and fluffier than the smooth lines of Kartik’s angular face.

Seemingly reassured that, at least for now, Aman’s skittishness did not overcome his hungry belly, Kartik eased back into his perpetual goofy grin and said, _“Nahi, nahi, koi dhokha nahi, bas yehi toh hai samne ke dukaan mein. Bas socha ek bar phir check karlu, sahaab ko menu se kuchh aur bhi chahiye ya nahi.”(“No, no, there’s been no betrayal, the shop’s just over there. I thought I’d just check once again it the gentleman wanted something else from the menu or not?”)_ Kartik began walking vaguely towards one of many storefronts that had too many people lingering in the front to make out what was even being sold.

 _“Jee nahi, Thursday ko hum vegetarian hi khaate hai. Woh pehle andhere mein ganna samajh kar galti se kaat diya tha. Jab kuchh meetha nikalne se raha, toh samajh mein aaya teri ungli hai. Phir bhi, uske liye sorry,”_ Aman explained as he followed Kartik towards what seemed like an imperceptible gap between two almost overlapping crowded storefronts. _(“No, sir, on Thursday we eat only vegetarian. Before, in the dark, I mistakenly bit into what I thought was sugarcane. But when nothing sweet emerged, I realized it was your finger. Still, I am sorry about that.”)_ It became clear to Aman that Kartik wasn’t about to let the finger-nibbling incident go easily, even though it only happened because Kartik was the one jabbing at Aman’s face without looking where. Aman was sorry, but not THAT sorry. Definitely not enough to resist teasing back when teased about it.

The gap between the stores revealed an entrance to a shadowed alley. Aman could only tell an alley even existed because of the tiny, grimy and unlighted sign that said _“Best Chhole Bhature”_ in Hindi script (yes, the word was still “Best” Hindi) that hung on a wall, clearly at an angle from the storefront. If it wasn’t for the sign and the arrow on it, pointing into the alley, Aman would be tempted to revisit his suspicions that Kartik was some sort of honeytrap for a Gabbar-like enterprise. Perhaps it was because his tummy rumblings had taken a painful turn, or perhaps it was because he was now irrevocably in thrall to a different Singh menace, Aman’s brain was quick to rationalize that at least part of the grimy surface of the sign had to indicate that appropriately flaky and fluffy fried breads lay within. If only Kartik would get moving and get out of his way.

Instead, Kartik stopped at the mouth of the alley and turned around to face Aman so suddenly, that he almost crashed his nose into Kartik’s sternum. He probably would have, and enjoyed it too, if Kartik hadn’t stopped Aman by grabbing his shoulders. Kartik then lifted Aman’s chin to meet his gaze, which was flickering with barely contained recklessness.

 _“Accha, aise sorry bolte hain? Main bataoon kaise or kaha se mithaas nikalna hai mere se? Ya phir kuchh zyaada hi non-veg ho jaayega aapke Thursday ke liye, Tripathi-ji?”_ asked Kartik in a sultry whisper, and Aman was sure, that if it weren’t for the ambient noise of the street behind him, he would be able to hear the purring growl that he was starting to become so familiar with. _(“Really, this is how you say sorry? Shall I tell you how and where to get the sweetness out of me? Or would that be a little too non-veg for your Thursday, Mr. Tripathi?”)_

With the world at his back, a very literal hunger in his tummy, and a sexy demon blocking his path to an oblivion in gluttony, Aman Tripathi did as Aman Tripathi does when cornered and uncomfortable. Throw ice on all warm tingly sensations that were slowly creeping up and down his face and spine, and pull on his armor of grump and snark and general whining.

 _“Arrey yaar, bhuk se marwayega kya? Yeh bhootwaale gali mein Chhole Bhature milta bhi hain ya sirf bebas bhukkaro ko aise lalchakar phansakar unke kabab banane ka paintra hai koi?”_ he snapped, grabbing and shaking Kartik’s shoulders in turn, enough to dislodge Kartik’s own grip on Aman. _(“Come on, dude, do you want to kill me with hunger? Does this haunted alley even have Chhole Bhature or is this some trap to lure helpless, hungry people so you can make kababs out of them?”)_ If this turned out to be a murder-for-kababs alley, he hoped he would have an upper hand when it came to putting up a fight. Aman had, at least, succeeded in shaking loose Kartik’s burbling laughter that always seemed to lurk underneath any and all attempts at focused seriousness.

 _“Aww shaant ho jaa mere bhukhe baby. Kartik Singh ke wada par shak nahi karte, bro. Iss bhootwaale gully ke saare bhatakti aatmayein unhi ke hain jo abhi bhi bas ek aur baar yeh chhole bhature chakhne ke liye tadap rahe hai,”_ said Kartik, as he led Aman into the alley, slinging his arm around Aman’s neck, which simultaneously pulled the shorter man to his side and propelled him forward into the spooky alley of promised deliciousness. _(“Aww, calm down, my hungry baby, one shouldn’t doubt Kartik Singh’s promise, bro. All the restless spirits in this haunted alley belong to those who cannot rest till they have had just one more morsel of Chhole Bhature.”)_

Aman was only slightly reassured on finding that the alley wasn’t completely dark, lined by a handful of low-flickering light bulbs. Once the noise of the streets fell away behind them, Aman could almost hear some promising sizzling noises and appetizingly wafting aromas of frying dough and eternally refrying _chholey_. For all he knew it was all part of the hunger delirium, because he still couldn’t see where any of this could be originating from. His uneasy armor, therefore, stayed on, getting crankier by the second as it began to dawn on him how much of this day had been spent being yanked around in the darkness by the chiseled limbs of his impish abductor.

Before he could stop himself, Aman’s cumulative unease of the entire day began to spill over. _“Sab kucch mazaak soojhta hain na tujhe? Ek toh yeh tera bro aur baby ka chakkar mera dimaag pura kharaab karke rakha hai. Saale mixed signal ke dukaan, yeh bro aur baby kab se interchangeable hone lag gaya?! Uske upar se khana khilane ke jagah mera toh kaleja hi muh tak aa raha hai iss bhayanak gully mein. Kahaa tha na maine, bilkul wahiyat sa din jaa raha hai? Ekdum mazaak ka mood nahi hai yaar…”._ _(“Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it? For one thing, your whole bro and baby cycle is messing with my head. Since when did bro and baby become interchangeable, you hot mess of mixed signals! And on top of that, instead of feeding me, you’re making my heart jump up to my throat in this scary alley. Didn’t I tell you I was having a terrible day? I really am not in the mood for jokes, man…”)_

For the second time today, Kartik shushed Aman, avoiding nibbling injuries of any kind. _“Oye, mujhe koi Delhi ka tez launda samajh ke rakha hai kya? Abhi toh main tera mood banana hi waala tha, thoda time toh lagta hain, bro. Ab phir se hangry mat ban, dekh hum aagaye, pehle sukoon se khana kha le, phir tu hi bata dena, tujhe bro pasand hai ya baby,”_ said Kartik, pointing with a jerk of his head towards where the alley suddenly widened into a side courtyard. _(“Hey, do you take me for one of these fast players of Delhi? I was just about to get you in the right mood, it just takes some time, bro. Now don’t get hangry again, look, we’re here. First, eat something, and then you can tell me if you like bro better or baby.”)_ Kartik then reluctantly removed his finger from Aman’s lips to also point at the makeshift setup of large woks and flat pans, surrounded by foldable tables and chairs, occupied by some scattered clientele, making quick work of the contents of their plates. The smells finally hitting Aman’s nostrils in full force made him dizzy for a whole different reason for the first time in Kartik’s presence, and his tummy growled so loudly this time, he could swear he heard it echo along the walls enclosing the alley.

If not for the sign at the top of the alley, and the complete open access to the courtyard, Aman could almost mistake this for a temporary setup for a family event in a house that was missing the entire wing that would normally enclose the courtyard to make it private. This possibility wasn’t immediately dispelled when Kartik let go of Aman to skip towards what looked like an Indian Santa Claus, who was seated at a desk functioning as a payment counter. Aman stood rooted where Kartik left him, a few feet from the desk, as the older man got to his feet and exclaimed joyfully _, “Arre Kartik puttar, kinne din baad!”_ as Kartik approached the jovial older gentleman and greeted him with a respectful knee-touch for blessings before coming up for a tight hug _. (“Oh Kartik, child, it’s been so long!”)_

Still hugging, the two men exchanged what Aman could only guess was more fond pleasantries, in rapid-fire Punjabi-infused Hindi that was difficult for even Aman to follow. Even without the words, the unadulterated affection between them was unmistakable. The rosy cheeked, twinkly-eyed, fluffy-bearded man was clearly as delighted to see Kartik as a prodigal son returned home, and Kartik’s usual smooth charm had a hint of genuine awe and respect, as if for a father or a father figure. Despite Aman’s deep discomfort at the proximity to food, and the delay in closing the gap between said food and his tummy, he couldn’t help but be moved by the sight in front of him.

Kartik, however, was clearly dreading the return of hangry Aman, because just as Aman’s vision started to swim suspiciously, he found himself being led by the shoulders closer to the food source, into the maze of scattered seating. He picked up enough of the parting exchange between Kartik and the older man to piece together that the Punjabi Santa was even more excited that Kartik had brought a friend, either at the prospect of increased clientele for his well-hidden shop, or because it was a rarity. Maybe the latter was wishful thinking on Aman’s part, hoping this secret rabbit-hole to deliciousness was a journey Kartik didn’t bring just anyone along with him.

Mercifully, due to some alchemy of the older man’s insistent gesticulations at the cooking crew and Kartik’s deft steering to a relatively secluded corner of the seating area, Aman avoided fainting outright as two plates of _Chhole Bhature_ arrived at their table at the precise moment Aman collapsed into a chair. Aman must have been too delirious to actually execute the task of feeding himself, allowing Kartik to follow through on his promise to feed Aman with his own hands. Because the next thing Aman knew, his mouth was experiencing a buttery explosion of flavors, contained by fluffy and flaky doughiness. He did remember to chew and gulp when he felt Kartik’s fingers, so familiar in and around Aman’s mouth at this point, making a slow retreat as he said, “ _Pasand aaya na? Meri ungliyon se bhi zyada? Chal, tere dus rupiye ka karz khatam. Ab baki ka khud khayega ya mere haathon ki aadat par gayi hai?”(“Don’t you like it? More than my fingers? There, your debt of ten bucks is settled. Now will you be eating the rest on your own or are you used to my hands now?”)_

This prompted Aman to snap out of his hunger daze, long enough to move the plate closer to him for a more expedient way to shovel the _chhole_ into his mouth, like his life depended on it. Which it probably did, considering he hadn’t had eaten anything since breakfast. Either Aman was dangerously close to starvation delirium, or this was indeed the best _Chhole Bhature_ in all of Delhi and the universe, as Kartik claimed. The sight of a ravenous Aman tickled Kartik so much, he kept guffawing before managing to feed himself even the first scoop of his own plate of _Chhole Bhature_. Aman did not come up for air, until half the _chhole_ and one whole _bhatura_ was gone, and only then he sat back with a contented sigh to take in his surroundings, and relish the flavors, not in a hurry to quiet an insistent tummy.

 _“Yeh dukaan se zyada toh kisi family ka aangan lag raha hai. Woh aadmi tere papa hai kya?”_ Aman asked, finally stable enough to indulge in the curiosity that was previously overshadowed by his almost fainting spell. _(“This place looks more like a family courtyard, than a shop. Was that man your father?”)_ He was starting to worry that despite his insistence to the contrary earlier, Kartik was moving too fast by bringing Aman to meet his family on what was increasingly and undeniably turning out to be a first date.

Kartik shook his head, whether to dispel the notion that the proprietor of the shop was his father or to banish images of his actual father, Aman couldn’t be sure. Kartik went on to explain that Punjabi Santa’s real name was Baldev Singh, a childhood friend of Kartik’s grandfather from the same village. When he found Aman’s face still looking at him expectantly for an elaboration, Kartik hesitated and looked away. Haltingly and almost mumbling, Kartik continued, _“Jab bhi mere lohaar baap se maar khaake main ghar se bhag jata tha, tab yehi the joh mera khayal rakhte the. Jab zyada chot aati thi, haddiya tut-tay the, yehi mujhe doctor ke pass bhi le jaate the. Aur jab tak sab ghav nahi bhar jaate, yehi rehne dete mujhe,”_ explained Kartik, the look in his eyes softer as he gazed fondly over to where Baldev was greeting the beginnings of a dinner rush. Kartik’s voice, however, had a tense evenness, as if he was trying to hold back the painful memories of the father he got, lurking immediately under the fond ones of the father he chose. _(“Whenever I ran away from home after my blacksmith of a father beat me up, he is the one who would take care of me. If I got hurt too much, or had broken bones, he is the one who would take me to the doctor. And until all wounds were healed he would keep me here.”)_

Kartik did not meet Aman’s gaze for a few minutes and focused intently on working through his meal, while Aman resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze some part of Kartik. Somehow, it was easier to offer that comfort in the dark theater than at twilight, with greasy fingers. Aman felt a burning sensation rise from his gut, that could be a result of the copious amounts of grease he just inhaled, but more than likely was a tidal wave of rage towards the monster who would inflict such horrific abuse on a child. If the childish adult was any indicator, Kartik Singh the actual child must have been a cherubic source of curiosity, light and joy. Aman decided it was safer to keep his curiosity limited to the mentor that sheltered that spirit and ensured its survival. _“Toh yeh unka ghar hain? Apne biwi bachhon ke saath yehi rehte hai?”_ asked Aman, after a beat, still trying to puzzle out the notoriety of this hidden gem and its proprietor, such that there was a steady trickle of clientele that filled up most of the seats by the time Aman was done with his remaining meal. _(“So is this his house? Does he live here with his wife and kids?”)_

 _“Biwi toh inhe kabhi chahiye hi nahi thi. Lekin meri tarah bohut saare aise bachhein hain unke, jinke maa baap rehte huye bhi woh apne hi ghar mein anath ho jaate hain. Jab bhi koi taqleef ho ya koi sahara ki zarurat ho, toh woh unhe yahi sambhal jaane ke liye ek chhat dete hai. Inhi se toh inspire hokar main bhi social worker ban gaya”_ Kartik mused, still not meeting Aman’s eye, as if unsure of what he might find there now that he had shared so much of his past. _(“He never really wanted a wife. But like me, he has many kids who are basically orphans in their own homes, despite having parents. Whenever they’re in trouble or need help and support, he gives them a roof under which to collect themselves.”)_

 _“Accha toh yeh aangan bhar bhar ke bacchhe aate hain unke chhole bhature khaane, lekin lagta hai tu inke liye thoda zyada special hai, hai na?”_ Aman asked hoping to ease Kartik back into the playful banter territory, before he was consumed by the ghosts of his past, and before the budding ease between them is overwhelmed by the awkwardness of vulnerability. _(“Ok so this whole courtyard full of kids come to eat his chhole bhature, but you’re a little extra special to him, aren't you?”)_ Kartik didn’t miss the opening, and finally looked up from his plate at Aman, with a grateful and shy smile.

 _“Special toh main hoon hi, saale. Par inke liye shayad issliye zyada special hoon kyunki hum dono ke baap ek hi wajah se hamari pitai karte the. Kaha tha na unhe biwi nahi chahiye thi? Aur unke zamaane mein woh mere jaise lucky nahi ho paaye, ki picture dekhne chale gaye aur pati ka candidate mil gaya…Tab toh Sholay bhi nahi nikli thi…soch, so sad…”_ Kartik trailed off with a resounding effort to pick up Aman’s bait, and return to his blatantly flirtatious agenda, which was now more tender than frantic. _(“I am totally special, dude. But I am probably extra special to him because we both used to get beat up by our dads for the same reason. I told you he never wanted a wife, right? And in his time, he wasn’t lucky enough to just go to the movies and find a husband candidate...Sholay hadn’t even come out then...Think, so sad…”)_

Aman tried to reconcile the wrinkled kindly and well-meaning face of Baldev, representing a whole generation that Aman had safely assumed to be firmly homophobic with no exceptions, with that of a well-worn veteran in the same battle that Aman is already tiring from. Aman couldn’t help but feel a little ashamed of himself for not having reached the logical conclusion of “love is love” to “love has ALWAYS been love”, so OF COURSE Kartik and Aman are far from the first wave to walk the thorny, non-heteronormative path to freedom. The dreams and hopes for any looming legislative freedoms that they might enjoy in their lifetimes had to have been birthed by the sacrifices and courage of many generations like Baldev’s, who refused to stay shamed and silenced.

Aman looked back over at Baldev, cheerily circulating amongst his dining clientele, patting a head here and grabbing a shoulder there, presumably recognizing his tribe of misfit toys. Aman felt a warm and fuzzy cloud spread inside him in this hidden courtyard which was Baldev’s own island community of love and compassion. Or it could be gas. When he stole a sidelong glace at Kartik, Aman found him smiling contemplatively, as if seeing it anew through Aman’s eyes, exuding fresh warmth and pride at the dazzlingly diverse crowd of people sharing a meal in a courtyard where their differences were cherished and nourished, not dismissed or distrusted. Aman couldn’t help vaguely thinking of the idyllic microcosm of diversity in the village of Ramgarh in _Sholay_. While the fictional community was plagued, ravaged and torn apart by trauma, Baldev’s very real community thrived despite the collective traumas and troubles, on the simple adhesive properties of greasy chickpeas and fluffy bread.

 _“Tu Social Worker hai?”_ asked Aman, trying to keep the awe and admiration from his voice and hoping he wasn’t being too invasive. _(“You’re a social worker?”)_ Kartik glanced back at Aman, giving him a dazzling smile, as if he had been waiting all day for Aman to ask about his favorite topic. Kartik Singh and his adventures in the wild. A welcome change from the morasses of past trials and tribulations. His face started positively beaming as he talked about the NGO he worked for, as a counselor to at-risk and homeless adolescents, many of whom were victims of domestic abuse and parental rejection, like himself.

Aman marveled at how Kartik’s face lit up when he spoke of the kids he mentored and counseled, and the various inspiring ways they reclaimed their self-worth and destinies, despite the unspeakable horrors and abuses visited upon them before they ended up in Kartik’s care. For one thing, Aman was a little envious of Kartik for having a job that sounded more like a true calling, which uplifted his spirit and made him glow from within from pure joy in his labors of love. For another, Aman was surprised yet charmed that despite his casual cockiness in their interactions so far, Kartik seemed to be oblivious to the fact that the reason his wards thrived under his care was in no insignificant part due to his own shining example and empathetic nurturing of their bruised and scarred spirits. Instead Kartik attributed it to the resilience and idealism of a child-like spirit and aspired to never lose that in himself.

At some point, Aman couldn’t help trying to sneak a bite off Kartik’s plate, which, unlike Aman’s shiny, sadly empty one, still had food left on it since Kartik’s hands and mouth were otherwise engaged in a lengthy, animated description of his favorite kids, and their antics. Aman hoped that the sincerely enchanted look on his own face would be enough distraction for Kartik to notice his slowly creeping hand towards the _chhole_ that was literally calling to Aman. He almost pulled it off too, until Kartik smacked the back of Aman’s guilty palm just as he made contact with the edge of the bowl.

 _“Abhi bhi bhook hai? Aur mangwaoo tere liye?”_ Kartik asked, protectively retrieving his plate and lifting it away from Aman’s reach. _(“Still hungry? Should I ask for more for you?”)_

Rubbing the now smarting skin on the back of his hand, and giggling guiltily, Aman confessed, “ _Bhook nahi hai. Tu itna ignore maar raha tha ki tere chhole mere se hi flirt karne lag gaye. Socha main hi chance mar leta hoon.” (“I’m not hungry. You were ignoring them so much , that your chhole started flirting with me. So I thought I might as well take a chance on them.”)_

At that, Kartik made a show of looking heartbroken and outraged like a cuckolded lover, all the while tearing off a piece of the _bhature_ and scooping up the slutty _chhole_ into an enticing perfect bite. _“Acchha, toh mere saath din bhar timepass kar raha tha? Chhole ki bhi aukaat nahi rahi hamari? Thik hai, yeh le, chakh le meri sautan ko,”_ said Kartik in exaggerated indignation, offering a tempting morsel Aman was too human to resist. _(“Okay, so you were just leading me on all day? I don’t even stand a chance against Chhole? Very well, here you go, have a taste of my nemesis.”)_

Now that Aman was fully functional enough to feed himself and the courtyard was considerably fuller than when they had first arrived, Aman felt a familiar paralysis creep back into his being. He stiffened in hesitation, his eyes darting all over like a cornered quarry, uncertain of the optics of being fed by Kartik so publicly. Kartik couldn’t have missed the recoil since he must have begun to expect it from Aman, startled by the remotest of affectionate physical overtures. Aman feared the return of the disappointed look in Kartik’s eyes, but he only found patient resignation and determination. _“Dekh tu aise in chholon ke jazbaaton se mat khel, chahiye ya nahi? Abhi bata de, warna roothke pata nahi kya kar dalenge?”_ , said Kartik, waving the carefully assembled bite in the air in front of Aman’s mouth insistently. _(“See you can’t play with the feelings of this chhole, do you want them or not? Just say it now, otherwise I don’t know what they’ll do if you piss them off.”)_

As a booming laugh escaped Aman at the unfolding soap opera,Kartik took the opportunity to shove the dangling morsel into Aman’s open mouth. Aman wasn’t sure, which hit him first: the choking or the burning. The spluttering attempts to guide the bite into the proper digestive path was made infinitely more difficult by a fiery resistance that was Kartik’s _chhole_ , about ten times spicier than his own. Aman realized the cooking crew was probably familiar with Kartik’s preferred level and didn’t normally subject first-timers’ taste buds to a trial by fire. So perhaps Kartik wasn’t fully aware of the difference in spice levels before offering him his _chhole_. Right? RIGHT?! 

Once Aman’s vision cleared from the gasping blurriness of literally choking to death, and only had to deal with the tear-splotched vision from the spice burn, Aman realized that in a flurry of summonings, one of the busboys had brought glasses of something, presumably to put Aman out of his misery. As he reached over for one, hoping to calm the absolute carnage in his mouth, Kartik grabbed the glass full of faintly tinted liquid out of his reach and dangled it as if Aman’s head wasn’t about to explode and implode all at once.

 _“Ab bataa, chance kispe marna hai, inn teekhe chhole par ya mere meethe ganne ke ras par?”_ Kartik positively cooed in smug delight. _(“Now tell me, who do you want to take a chance on? These spicy chhole or my sweet sugarcane juice?”)_

For a moment, Aman considered grabbing one of the other glasses that contained water, just to punish Kartik for putting him through this ordeal. Instead he reached over, snatched and gulped down the glass of ACTUAL sugarcane juice, much appreciated by the nuclear wasteland of his mouth and throat. Kartik clearly interpreted this as an indisputable victory for himself in the battle for Aman’s affections, because his self-satisfied smugness melted into a genuine eye-crinkly smile of delight and glee. So when Aman emerged victorious from his own struggle against the ravages of the tart _chhole_ , a stinging warmth radiating from his recently seared mouth, throat, eyes and chest, Aman couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed or angry at Kartik. Everything hurt too much already.

Instead he found his sputtering coughs turn into helpless giggles and he said, _“Haan, meri hi galti hai, tere phudakne se pata ho jana chahiye tha tera spice level bisphot hai.” (“Yes, it’s my mistake, I should have known from your bounciness that your spice level is explosive.”)_

At this, Kartik barked out a laugh before leaning over to purr and tease, _“Koi nahi, galtiyan toh hume bhi bohut karne ka irada hai tere saath Aman Tripathi, uska kya karein?” (“No worries, there’s plenty of mistakes I intend to make with you Aman Tripathi, what do we do about those?”)_

Perhaps the choking and burning by _chhole_ had wreaked more havoc on his brain than he had initially thought, because for once, Aman reached over to gently lift Kartik’s chin, and not the other way round, and said with a soft intensity, _“Tu khana toh khatam kar, phir dekhte hain. List ke ek do galti toh hamari bhi baki hai. Baby.” (“You finish your food, then let’s see. There’s one or two mistakes left on my list too. Baby.”)_ Aman made sure to pour all his intentions and enunciation into that last bit. He didn't want Kartik to miss an ounce of it.

Kartik’s eyes glinted with a visibly heady restrain to not close the gap between their faces, right there in that crowded courtyard. Instead, lips pursed to contain their leaky smiles and wayward intentions, Kartik Singh slowly swayed away from Aman and proceeded to melt into a puddle of wobbly limbs in his chair, held by Aman’s patient but intent gaze, the food between them still steaming but forgotten.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of dreams and nightmares and enchanted courtyards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one, with a fair amount of infodumping in the middle, so forgive me. Hope it's not too jarring. I did write that bit very early in the development of this whole piece, but was holding on to it for the right moment. Not sure if this is it, but it's here, anyway.  
> Thanks for the continuing love and validation. Hope this chapter keeps earning it! Any and all feedback makes my day/week while I keep working on this labor of love! Do the beautiful things you always do in the comment section!

Kartik did manage to finish his first plate of _Chhole Bhature,_ eventually. And his second, and his third. So did Aman. The reluctantly retreating daylight in the distant, narrow patch of sky above them, shifted from hazy golden to whimsical pinks and purples, while the omnipresent, gracious host of this magical courtyard made sure the plates never remained empty. They seemed to get whisked away and refilled every time a warm and fluffy presence, in a flashing white _kurta_ , filled Aman’s and Kartik’s peripheral vision.

Their gazes, however, did not have the curiosity to spare to investigate potential enchantments of the fey variety, beyond the all too human ones that had led them here in the first place. If they had been raised on bedtime stories, warning them about eating and drinking in fantastical courts and gatherings, found at the end of dark and mysterious paths, they had either forgotten or only chosen to remember the dreamy allure of the forbidden. By the time an assortment of string and tube lights came to life around the courtyard, flickering whimsically against the deepening cerulean of the disappearing twilight, Kartik and Aman were doomed many times over to dance the night away in their quiet corner of this Seelie Court.

Having made his first reckless move in this dance, Aman found that he quite enjoyed taking the lead for once, changing the pace from dizzying to tender. He especially enjoyed the vision of a refreshingly tame and flustered Kartik, whose entire being seemed to have become as soft and pliable like graceful reeds in the wind. Kartik’s face and eyes had taken on a shy hoodedness that made Aman want to reach over and tease out what lay beneath this new and delicate layer, now that the layers of dramatic flailing, irrepressible laughter and coy posturing had slipped off. Aman was starting to entertain the notion that he might die in this alley after all, but not in some spooky or gory way, but by exploding into a million embers from the effort to keep his hands from holding Kartik’s face, and tracing its lines with his own fingers and lips. Mercifully, the magically refilling plates of _Chhole Bhature_ ensured that his hands and lips remained otherwise engaged. For now.

 _“Waise, tune abhi tak bataya nahi ki tera din kyu ghatiya jaa raha tha?”_ asked Kartik, tentatively, as if having spied the mood in Aman that he had set out to create, he wasn’t keen on dismantling it. _(“By the way, you still haven’t told me why your day was going so horribly?”)_

 _“Kya bataaun, yaar, naukri chali gayi, poochh mat,”_ Aman mumbled tiredly, hoping it was dismissive enough to discourage further questions. _(“What do I even say, dude, I lost my job, don’t even ask.”)_ To his surprise, however, Aman realized that the sinking feeling, which inevitably followed any previous reminder of this morning’s events at the office, was now significantly muted. Perhaps it was the satisfied slowing of senses after consuming an obscene amount of _Chhole Bhature_ or the enchantments of this reality bubble that made fuzzy work of inhibitions. Kartik didn’t have to ask or even precociously prod Aman, before details were falling from him, like rain from heavy clouds that have carried their burden too long and too far to maintain their looming composure.

Aman dove into his explanation from the very beginning, when he met his boss, who was a year ahead of him in college. Not only did he possess a clichéd Bollywood-esque name like Rahul, but also the sexily floppish hair, smarmy smile and obscenely wealthy family to match. His brand of exploitative charm, unlike other seniors, wasn’t one of sadistic bullying but one that thrived on the unquestionable adoration of any and all he chose to interact with. Whether he achieved it with generous camaraderie or utter indifference, it did much to disguise his utter lack of anything resembling integrity or humility. Hardly two of the most important lessons on any curriculum churning out future leaders of society.

As a shy, scrawny and studious kid from a small city, Aman wasn’t remotely immune when the college dreamboat plucked him out from a sea of overeager newbies as his very personal protégé. Rahul soon came to rely on Aman for most of his projects and assignments, even those beyond Aman’s own curriculum. Aman complied a little too readily, grateful for the shield of Rahul’s popularity against some of his more unsavory peers on unearned power trips.

Aman couldn’t be sure when Rahul had caught on to the inevitable infatuation, but by the second year of their friendship, their physical familiarity had taken a turn for wandering and lingering. And by Rahul’s final year, stolen moments of rushed and indelicate couplings had become a sporadic way to blow off steam, especially around periods of excess academic stress or nights of other youthful excesses. Neither acknowledged to the other if these trysts served as a surreal guilty pleasure or a mundane narcissistic experiment, but it certainly was one or the other to each of them. In fact, they never spoke of it until shortly before Rahul’s graduation, when he told Aman that he was certain he wasn’t gay and he was going to marry a family friend’s daughter, whose dad’s social stature Rahul was madly in love with.

It was sometime during this unacknowledged phase of their relationship, in the throes of a rare leisurely post-coital afterglow that Aman had confided in Rahul his long-held desire to build something that could help people navigate the intimidating world of mental health. Specifically, Aman envisioned something that could be an informed and empathetic guiding hand through those first tentative steps towards finding the right professional, with the right expertise, within their financial means. This was borne from his own struggles with anxiety and depression, the toxic taboo around mental health and masculinity in a place like Allahabad, where he felt increasingly alienated in his home and his body, gasping for breath under the oblivious relentlessness of his family's loving scrutiny.

When Rahul left Aman with nothing but assurances of some vague future loyalty, Aman had refused to be devastated, busying himself in the pursuit of his own graduation within the year. Anytime tears or heartache threatened to shatter his dedicated denial, Aman took comfort in the fact that however illicit, exploitative or devoid of anything resembling love his non-relationship with Rahul had been, it had served an important purpose. He had never felt more at home in his own body despite all the years his family had showered him with unconditional love.

Aman was, therefore, already in a grateful state of mind when Rahul offered Aman a position at his startup, pursuing the mental health platform that Aman had conceived of. Also, it didn’t hurt that Rahul had only gotten hotter, his hair wavier and now donned the sexy, inscrutable smile to match his upgrade to a slim-cut power suit. Aman told himself that his acceptance of the position, without any negotiations, had nothing to do with any expectations of a rekindling, but only gratitude towards a generous friend, who had protected him from bullying and given him the dream opportunity to work on a passion project.

Before long, it became abundantly clear to Aman that his position as technical lead was far from a partnership between friends. It was a legalese-bound, more distant version of the same exploitative dynamics that had earned Rahul his degree on the back of Aman’s brilliance and diligence. For a while Aman did not mind, caught up as he was in the joy of working towards a cherished vision. The closer his dedicated efforts got the company to a fully realized launch, however, the more Aman began to pick up on the microaggressions creeping into his increasingly limited interactions with the former friend, and current boss.

It started with casual condescending remarks at team meetings about Aman’s humble, small-town origins. Gradually these escalated to barely concealed homophobic “jokes” with co-workers within Aman’s hearing, as if daring Aman to out himself and their past intimacy to the detriment of Aman’s position at the company. Eventually, it got to a point where Rahul abandoned any semblance of past friendship, frequently throwing Aman under the bus for major logistical and administrative screw-ups that were really Rahul’s responsibilities as CEO.

On this particular morning, things came to a head when, despite Rahul’s best efforts to the contrary, Aman found himself in an important meeting of the investors. At the end of his prepared and approved presentation, Aman made a passionate pitch for future updates to the tool’s trauma-sensitivity, community outreach into vulnerable demographics and a sliding fee structure to ensure affordability and accessibility, regardless of income. The general unease descending on the room full of pockets should have been Aman’s first clue that he had misread the empathy and social responsibility quotient of its occupants.

Before he could come up with a closing statement, Rahul cut him off and proceeded to condescendingly “remind” Aman of the company’s bottom-line, one that Aman had never known to even forget. With mock patience for Aman and reassuring platitudes for the investors, Rahul underlined the insidious truth about his adoption and appropriation of Aman’s dream venture. It was essentially a front to monetize on user-data, collected during user registration and virtual patient intakes, for targeted advertising and sale to interested third parties.

As the horror of the utter wrongness of misusing this information, provided by vulnerable people in a desperate cry for help, began to sink in, Aman felt sick to his stomach and resisted the urge to literally puke in Rahul’s face. What turned the vomit into hot fire of rage, however, was Rahul’s companionable sniggering with the investors and colleagues at the naivete of Aman’s small-town idealism that would waste precious company resources to accommodate those outside the desired bracket of spending power and influence.

All at once, Aman felt everything from the heartbreak he had postponed, to the epic betrayal of his trust, and the theft of his true calling. And in that moment, Aman channeled all the length and focused intensity of the angry young man he idolized, and tore into Rahul and his castle of sand. Sitting now as he did, cradled in the palpable safety of Baldev Singh’s pocket universe, Aman couldn’t remember the actual words he had used to call out the moral and ethical standing of every one in the room. But he did vaguely remember the acrid feeling in his chest and the pounding in his head and ears, and he felt almost grateful for the mercy of a rage-induced blackout. He also recalled, finally with some satisfaction, the utter lack of resistance put up by Rahul’s gaping mouth and flushed face, or for that matter, from any of the Very Important People in the room, as he finally found the right words to end his presentation and his career, before storming out.

Aman had busied himself with pushing his food around on the plate while pouring out the saga of doom, not looking up until he had gotten through all of it, stumbling and tripping through the complex emotional landscape that was now a barren wasteland. Kartik’s face had settled into an impassive hardness that, on a face Aman was now used to seeing with an ambient warmth, felt more jarring than if it had been contorted in rage. _“Usne tujhe har tarah se_ use _karke chhod diya, aur tu phir bhi uske yahan_ job _karne chala gaya? Pyaar ho gaya tha kya ussey?”_ asked Kartik, tightly and tentatively, but Aman felt a sting of accusation in the question. _(“He used you in every way possible, and you still went to work for him? Were you in love with him?”)_

 _“Pagal mat ban, isme pyaar mohabbat kaha se aa gaya? Mujhe hamesha pata tha ki woh mujhe_ use _kar raha hai, lekin_ use _toh maine bhi kiya na usey? Dost tha mera,_ popular _tha, aur maine uska fayda uthakar buri tarah ke ragging se khudko bachaya na? Aur_ graduation _tak mujhe laga ki dosti itni gehri bhi ho gayi thi ki woh mujhe bas_ job _nahi de raha tha, mere sapno ko poora karne ka mauka de raha tha. Woh galti thi meri, main manta hoon. Iss sapne aur dosti ke chakkar mein bhool gaya tha ki yeh_ business _hai aur inke iraade ko mujhe_ research _karna chahiye tha,”_ Aman clarified and conceded in equal measures, before resuming his efforts to finish his third plate of _Chhole Bhature_. Admitting flaws and mistakes was hungry work, after all. _(“Don’t be crazy, where does love or romance even come into this? I always knew that he was using me, but didn’t I use him too? He was my friend, he was popular and didn’t I use that to my advantage to save myself form getting bullied badly? And by the time graduation came around, I thought our friendship was deep enough that he wasn’t giving me a job, but a chance to fulfill my dreams. That was my mistake, I admit. In this trap of dreams and friendship, I’d forgotten that this was a business and I should have researched their intentions.”)_

Despite the heartbreak he felt when Rahul had pulled the plug on their physical relationship, and the deep betrayal of friendship and faith he had weathered this morning, Aman wasn’t lying when he said he had never been in love with Rahul. Infatuation and validation, perhaps, but never love. But he would be lying to himself if he pretended not to be pleased at the hint of jealousy Kartik’s question was failing to disguise.

 _“Abey galti ke dukaan, agar pyaar nahi karta tha, toh dil ki khwahish kyun baant raha tha uske saath? Usne tera dil toda, sapna chheen liya, aur tune uska naak bhi nahi toda nikalte waqt?”_ Kartik was finally starting to let his frustration animate his face and limbs again, and despite the totally unfair dressing down he was being subjected to, Aman was relieved. _(“Hey hot mess of mistakes, if you didn’t love him then why were you sharing your heart’s desire with him? He broke your heart, stole your dream, and you didn’t even break his nose on the way out?”)_

 _“Naak todke kya karta? Ya toh mere sapnon ke saath saath mera naak bhi kaatkar apne chehre pe chipka leta, ya phir apne baap-sasur ke paiso ke pahaad se doosra behtar naak khareed leta. Saare_ investors _ke saamne shor machakar uske aukat ki dhajjiya udane ki koshish kiya na maine? Tujhe kya lagta hai, unme se kisiko kuchh ghanta farq padta hai? Yaar, koi inn logo ka kuchh nahi bigaad sakta, koshish karo toh bus hum jaiso ki hi bigadti hai. Uske upar se_ violent _hokar bhi kya ukhaar leta? Abhi agar waapis jaoon toh shaayad_ building _mein phir bhi ghusne denge._ Officially fire _hone ya_ quit _karne. Ya phir naukri wapas karne ki bheekh maangne_ ,” Aman grumbled defeatedly, quickly losing the tenuous will to stay afloat in his ocean of self-pity and wallowing. _(“What would a broken nose get me? Either he would snatch mine off my face like my dream and slap it on himself, or with his family’s mountains of money he’d just buy another better one. I did try to make noise and put him in his place in front of all the investors, didn’t I? What do you think, did it matter one damn bit to any of them? Dude, no one can hurt these people, only people like us get hurt trying to hurt them. And on top of that, if I’d gotten violent as well, what would that accomplish? At least if I go back now, they might let me into the building. To get officially fired or quit. Or to beg for my job back.”)_

 _“Oye, pagla gaya hai kya ishq mein? Galti se bhi bheekh maangne mat jaiyo, Aman Tripathi, galti se bhi nahi. Warna main khud waha pohuchkar iss Rohit ka naak tod doonga, aur saath mein tera taang bhi. Bheekh toh usey tujhse maangni chahiye_ job _wapas lene ki”_ The threat of violence, notwithstanding, Aman almost chuckled at the thought of an irate Kartik unleashed on the suave and vacant Rahul, the only thing that could potentially shatter Rahul’s brand of blandness more than Aman’s outburst. Something primal almost tempted Aman to risk his own mobility for a time just to see Rahul’s face when Kartik was done with it. And then let Kartik’s face know how much he enjoyed it. _(“Oi, did you go crazy in love? Don’t even think about begging, Aman Tripathi, not even in your dreams. Otherwise, I’ll show up myself to break this Rohit’s nose, and your legs too. He should be the one begging you to take your job back”)_

 _“Tu kyun iss pyar-ishq pe atak gaya hai, yaar, kahaa na waisa kuchh nahi hai? Sholay dekhte waqt mujhe taane mar raha tha na_ love story _pe atakne ka? Zyada Veeru ban-ke kisi ki chun chun-ke pitai karne ki koi zaroorat nahi hai. Waise Rahul hain uska naam aur woh kyun bheekh maangega? Mere sapne koh tod marorke usne paisa banane ka tareeka toh nikaal hi liya hai, uske saare_ investors _bhi khush hai aur baki ke_ employees _khushi se bejhijhak woh kaam kar bhi rahe hai. Ab meri kya zaroorat rahi usko?”_ Aman whined instead, leaning into the lure of self-pity that had been tugging at him all day. _(“Why are you stuck on love and romance, dude, didn’t I tell you it was nothing like that? Weren’t you teasing me about being stuck on a love story while watching Sholay? There’s no need to be Veeru and beat anyone up for me. By the way, his name is Rahul and why would he beg me to come back? He has managed to distort my dreams to his money-making purposes, all his investors are happy, and so are the rest of the employees who are helping him do it without any scruples. Why would he need me back now?”)_ It dawned on him that the lingering hurt was not just from Rahul’s betrayal, but the silent complicity of his colleagues on the development team, all of whom he had assumed shared in his vision. The few that were in that boardroom not only did not stand up for him, but seemed utterly unsurprised by the revelations that had torn Aman apart. The losses of this day were starting to pile up even higher than he had initially estimated, and Aman was afraid there wasn’t enough _Chhole Bhature_ in the world to fill the widening void it left in its wake. In this courtyard, however, the supply seemed endless, so Aman might as well try.

And then, there was also Kartik Singh, who Aman was barely holding off from filling every nook and cranny of his body and soul. Aman suddenly couldn’t remember why he was trying so hard to avoid the inevitable. Kartik looked at him with righteousness in his eyes, and his rage in the ferocity with which he tore at his _Bhatura,_ and said, _“Tu soch, aise ghatiya iraade ke saath kab tak logo ko bewakoof bana sakte hai, yaar? Mehnat lagti hai logo ka bharosa jeetney main, unke dard ko samajh kar unhe aage ka rasta dikhane mein. Mujhse poochh, yahi toh mera bhi kaam hai. Aur_ thanks to you _, mehnat shabd toh iss Rakesh ke_ vocabulary _mein hai nahi. Hai toh sirf uske baap sasur ke paise. Sirf paiso se kaam ho paata toh tujhe thodi na_ hire _karta?_ You’re worth it, and he knows it. _” (“Think about it, how long can they possibly keep fooling people with these horrible ethics, man? It takes hard work to win people’s trust, to empathize with their pain and show them the way forward. Ask me, it’s the same as my job! And thanks to you, hardworking isn’t a word that exists in this Rakesh’s vocabulary. All he has is his dad and father-in-law’s money. If money was all he needed to make this work, why would he have hired you? You’re worth it, and he knows it.”)_

 _“Arrey, Rahul hai uska naam, aur usne mujhe aur mere mehnat ko bhi paiso se hi khareeda tha na? Saath saath mere sapne ko bigaadne ka haq bhi khareed liya usne,”_ Aman countered half-heartedly, more out of habitual contrariness, than true annoyance. _(“His name is Rahul, man, and he bought me and my hard work for money as well, didn’t he? And along with that, he bought the rights to destroying my dream.)_ In truth, his insides were melting and swooning at Kartik’s passionate faith in Aman’s worth, despite only having known him for mere hours. It wasn’t as if Aman hadn’t been told he was special by his family and friends all his life. But something about Kartik’s righteous defense of Aman had a flavor of destiny and a feeling of coming home to it.

 _“Lekin kitna khubsoorat sapna hai yaar! Sapne hai, sone ke kangan nahi ki jise chaahe bech diya, ya jo chaahe khareed liya. Aur yeh khoobsurat sapna TERA hai, bro, uska nahi. Woh jitna bhi koshish karle, usey chheen-ney ki ya todne ki, soh jaayega toh sirf tere hi mehnat ki neend mein aayega yeh sapna. Aur tu mujhe yeh bataa, ki jiss cheez ko woh sapne me bhi nahi apna sakta hai, kaise woh uss cheez par haqeeqat mein haq jamaa paayega? Toh agar mehnat bhi tera hua aur sapna bhi, uss sapne ki haqeeqat toh tere haath se hi banke rahegi,”_ Kartik mused softly, even his insistence landing with a lilting softness on Aman, like wayward flowers that his cousins aimed at him instead of the deities at any number of religious ceremonies in their family courtyard. _(“But what a beautiful dream it is, dude! They’re dreams, not gold bangles that you can sell to anyone, and anyone can just buy. And this beautiful dream if YOURS, bro, not his. No matter how hard he tried, to snatch it or break it, this dream will only appear to you in your heard-earned sleep. And tell me this, if he can’t even dream about it, how can he claim it in reality? So if the hard work if yours, and so is the dream, then only you can make that dream come true.”)_

Aman tried to keep from blushing at Kartik calling his dream beautiful, as if he had called some physical attribute of Aman’s beautiful. In fact, Aman may not have felt the same warmth if Kartik had done just that, and might even have, instinctively and dismissively, scoffed audibly. But this desperate wish of Aman’s, one that had been distorted beyond recognition, when spoken of so reverently by Kartik, for a moment felt once again, unspoiled and sparkling. If only he had saved that whispered confidence for someone like Kartik, whose very existence was testament to how precious Aman’s dream was. Someone who could be a true partner in nurturing that sapling into a sprawling grove of hope and compassion. Unable to keep the smile from his lips and his eyes and possibly even his ears and nose, Aman looked back down at his plate, and realized that there had been a shift in the courtyard’s magic along with the source of its lighting. The plates of _Chhole Bhature_ had turned into plates of _laddoos_ and _jalebis._

 _“Baki sapnon ki baat chhod, mujhe bas abhi aisi neend chahiye jisse uthne ke baad pata chale ki poora din ek bura sapna tha. Meri toh yeh soch ke phat rahi hai ki pehle hi naukri se_ fire _hokar doosra naukri kaise milega, woh bhi uss chutiye Rahul ke_ reference _ke bina? Aur agar gharwalon ko pata chal gaya toh fauran Allahabad wapas bulakar Kusum-se shaadi karwa denge,”_ Aman began, spiraling. _(“Forget the other dreams, I just want the kind of sleep that I wake up from and find out that this whole day was just a nightmare. I am losing my shit thinking about how I am going to find another job after getting fired from my very first one, and that too, without a reference from that asshole Rahul? And if my family finds out, they will immediately ask me to come back to Allahabad and get me married to Kusum.”)_ It seemed the appearance of the sweets, clearly from beyond the charmed courtyard, had broken the spell. As the illusion of time standing still began to crumble, so did the dam that held back the Aman’s anxieties about the very real repercussions of this morning’s fallout.

 _“Poora din bura sapna tha? Tu bure sapnon mein bhi_ theater _mein Sholay dekhta hai? Aur ab yeh Kusum kaun hai, yaar? Kabhi koi Rahul, kabhi koi Kusum, kitno ko chun chun ke marna parega tera haath thaamne ke liye, Tripathi ji? Delhi se Allahabad tak_ line _lagi hai kya aapke swayamvar ki?”_ asked Kartik with tired groan. _(“The whole day was a nightmare? Do you watch Sholay in a movie theater even in your nightmares? And who is this Kusum now? Sometimes there’s a Rahul, sometimes there’s a Kusum, how many do I have to get rid of to hold your hand, Mr. Tripathi? Is there a line from Delhi to Allahabad of your suitors”)_ Aman heard the increasingly familiar hurt disappointment in Kartik’s voice as Aman’s wishful dismissal of everything this day had brought had rendered their chance encounter disposable. For once, however, Aman didn’t feel the familiar talons of shame tearing at him. Instead, what tore out of him was a fond chuckle at Kartik’s operatic quest to remain in the running for Aman’s affections. As if he hadn’t whisked Aman away into a dreamscape where the realities of Rahul and Kusum were the true nightmares.

 _“Kyun, itni jaldi jalan bhi hone lagi, baby? Tune hi kahaa tha na? Chal maan liya, poora din bura sapna nahi tha. Lekin_ theater _mein Sholay dekh paana toh haqeeqat se zyada sapna hi lag raha hai. Shayad kuchh bure sapnon ki bhi_ happy ending _banti hai,_ ” Aman said, holding Kartik’s gaze with the hopeful audacity of a true dreamer. _(“Why, are you getting jealous already, baby? Isn’t that what you said before? Alright, I’ll admit, the whole day wasn’t a nightmare. But being able to watch Sholay in a theater still feels more like a dream than reality. Perhaps some nightmares also get happy endings.”)_ Kartik’s slowly and sweetly unfurling smile reaching his eyes, which outshone the twinkling of his nose-ring under the fairy-lights, confirmed that he had indeed heard what Aman’s eyes spoke louder than words. _You feel like a dream, you ARE the dream._

 _“Accha? Toh iss sapne ka_ happy ending _Chatterjee-babu ke mithaiyon se ban jaayega ya phir aage ka bhi kuchh socha hai?”_ Kartik teased with exaggerated waggling of his eyebrows, just in case Aman missed the innuendo that he had instantly regretted having unwittingly set up in a moment of rare earnestness. _(“Oh really? Will Mr. Chatterjee’s sweets suffice as a happy ending for this dream or did you have something else in mind?”)_ Aman was either going to have to watch what he says around Kartik or get used to the frantic head-rush of their banter, which could make Aman blush, laugh or aroused in quick succession or all at once. Aman was quite pleased with himself at the realization that he was halfway on his way to getting used to the latter.

 _“Aaj kuchh bhi soch samajhkar kahaan kar raha hu main. Ab yeh Chatterjee Babu kaun hain?”_ asked Aman, eagerly digging into the sweets, since his tongue hadn’t quite recovered from its earlier devastation. _(“I haven’t exactly been thinking my way through today. Now who is this Mr. Chatterjee?”)_

 _“Jinke laddoo chaba raha hai tu. Waha Baldev-ji ke saath jo baithe hain. Bohut puraane dost hai dono, shaam ko apne dukaan se mithai lekar aa jaate hai sabke liye, aur der raat tak chalti rehti hai inki guftagoo.”_ Kartik explained, slowly nibbling on a _jalebi_ , his eyes amused at Aman’s satisfied noises after inhaling two _ladoos_ alarmingly fast. _(“He is the guy whose laddoos you are gnawing on. The one sitting over there with Baldev-ji. They’re really old friends, he brings over sweets from his store for all the diners every evening, and then they talk late into the night.”)_

Aman looked over to where another older gentleman had joined Baldev at the desk of benevolent hosts. Mr. Chatterjee was leaner, taller, clean-shaven with a thick head full of snowy, whimsical curls. Baldev Singh, for once, did not have eyes for any other reveler in his enchanted domain, and neither did the object of his utmost attention. It occurred to Aman that perhaps this hidden courtyard of love and laughter, food and found family, was not only a safe haven for those that Baldev took under his wing, but the piece of the real world the two older gentlemen had carved out and whisked away for themselves, where every night was date night, and everyone was invited to celebrate their joy in each other.

When Aman looked back at Kartik quizzically, he found him still staring at Aman with a knowing smile. Heading off Aman’s question, Kartik said, _“Tujhe yahaan bhi_ love story _dikh raha hai na? Waise itna chira hua banta rehta hai tu, lekin teri jo yeh roohani aankhein hai na, bilkul dhokha de jaati hai tujhe. Ek number ka romantic hai tu, saale, ab band kar angry young man ka naatak.”(“You’re seeing a love story here too, aren’t you? You’re always putting on this perpetually annoyed front, but these soulful eyes of yours betray you constantly. You’re a hopeless romantic, man, now stop with the angry young man act already.”)_

 _“Bara aaya mujhe sikhane, apna nautanki dekha hai? Tu toh jaanta hai na inn logo ko itne saalon se, tujhe nahi dikh raha jo mujhe saaf saaf dikh raha hai?”_ Aman asked, deflecting from the effect of Kartik’s words and gaze on his poor little smitten heart, which was already rather queasy from the endless feast. _(“Look who’s talking, have you seen your own theatrics? You’ve known these two for so many years, you don’t see what I can see as clear as day?”)_

 _“Tujhse nazar hataa saku, tab dikhega na. Ek tu hai jo iss sapne se jaagne ki jaldi mein hai, aur ek main hoon jo palke jhapakne se dar raha hoo ki kahi galti se jaag na jaoo,”_ said Kartik in a voice Aman hadn’t heard from him before now. _(“I’d see it if only I could tear my eyes away from you. There’s you who is in a rush to wake from this dream, and then there’s me who is afraid to blink in case I make the mistake of waking up.”)_ The words carried a depth and desperation that, for once, Kartik’s body language wasn’t emulating with its usual flair. Instead there was a stillness and tenderness that belied the rippling vulnerability in his voice, reminding Aman of the tentative and inviting calm of an early morning low-tide.

 _“Theek hai, mat dekh, par wahaan bhi kuchh aisa hi chal raha hai,”_ Aman managed to croak out as his throat filled with emotions that he wasn’t quite ready to unpack yet, especially since it might be unleashed in the form of a rather unseemly, loud burp. _(“Ok fine, don’t look, but something similar is going down over there as well.”)_ He did, however, decide that it was imperative that Kartik be up to date on the courtyard gossip he was clearly being deprived of.

Not long after, or perhaps many endless enchanted nights after they arrived, Kartik and Aman reluctantly washed the mixture of savory grease and sweet stickiness from their hands. To the radiant lords and hosts of this Otherworld, they paid their respects at their feet, gushed their gratitude in their warm embraces and finally, bid their farewells. As they began the dark and dazed walk through the hidden alley back to the real world, Aman reached out to find the hand he sought, tentatively reaching back for his, between them. By the time they emerged from the alley, their hands were clasped, their fingers entwined. But not before they slowed their walk long enough for their fingertips to trace every inch of each other’s palms and let the sensory deprivation of the darkness amplify and radiate the lazy fireworks from their palms to every last inch of their bodies.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less talking, more...touching?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for skipping an update last week! I was down with seasonal aches, sniffles and blues, only to emerge from it all into a crippling writer's block. In the end, I had to rely on the Rocket Man himself to inspire me. Which is to say, I hope this chapter is worth the wait, even though it may not be quite as crackling with banter as the previous ones. Let me know how you feel, will you, my dearies?  
> ~ M

Aman and Kartik emerged from the deep comforting darkness of the alley, positively afloat on a cloud of stars, borne from the embers of fireworks that their tentative touches had ignited. Their re-entry into the palpable clamor of the busy, shop-lined sidewalks made for a chaotic descent into the gravity well of reality. The hard impact of the event horizon, between the weightlessness of the dream-sphere and the gravitational forces of the mundane, made quick work of their hesitant but hungry hold on each other.

As the weight of the Earth’s atmosphere settled quickly into their eyes and their shoulders, all they could do was make their desperate but lonely ways through the rushing stagnancy of human bodies towards Kartik’s motorbike. Only after they washed up on the narrow island of their intended destination did they share a look, acknowledging their fall from the stars into the sound and fury of a city's indifference. Their eyes reflected the same jaded resignation to the inevitable loss of something they could only hope to hold in a dream, one they had both woken from too many times, alone.

Disillusionment and crankiness returned to Aman's being, like the unwelcome familiarity of gravity, after months in space. Either to escape the awkwardness or the crowds, Kartik got to the ever-uncertain task of awakening his tempestuous ride. Aman was hardly surprised when that proved to be a tall order as the grumbly steed refused the benefit of its grumbles towards life and movement. Aman couldn’t help but wonder if the crotchety _Dhanno_ was perhaps wreaking a petty vengeance for being abandoned. For what felt like hours, but was probably only twenty minutes, both boys tried their hands and feet and words and wishes to coax and cajole the scorned automaton.

 _“Arrey chal Dhanno, aaj tere Basanti ki ijjat ka sawaal hai”,_ Kartik pleaded at one point, embarrassed and flustered, but this vehicular _Dhanno_ had a cold mechanical heart and remained unmoved by Basanti’s magic words. _(“Hey, come on, Dhanno, your Basanti’s honor is at stake today”)_. Aman, however, allowed himself a grudging chuckle, before nudging Kartik’s frantic form away, to try his own ineffectual hand again to start the motorbike. By rights, Aman had no business trying his hand at solving the situation at all, since he was the reason Kartik had spurned his mechanical companion. But then again, he wasn’t the son of Shankar Tripathi and nephew of Chaman Tripathi without the hereditary flair for presumptuous argument and irritated superiority, based solely on his boundless experience of a handful of stolen joyrides on his father’s old motorbike.

When the futility of their combined efforts became undeniable, they both leaned against the unresponsive vehicle in resignation, unconsciously re-establishing contact between their bodies. Perhaps it was the return to this state of now-familiar comfort, or perhaps it was the heightened awareness of how close their faces were, but when they turned to look at each other helplessly, the absurdity of the situation pushed them towards a manic giggling fit. Somehow grasping hands and clasping shoulders in a mutual gasping for air, in a feedback loop of paroxysmal laughter, did not have the sobering effect on either of them that much lighter touches had through the day.

It shouldn’t have, therefore, surprised Aman, when he finally caught his breath, to find his face buried in Kartik’s chest. He must have attempted to stabilize himself by resting his forehead to Kartik’s sternum, as Kartik must have attempted the same with his arms circled around Aman’s neck to rest on his shoulders. In this desperate hug of survival, they seemed to have forgotten that they were vying for the same cubic foot of oxygen. Which may explain why when Aman raised his head to meet Kartik’s eyes, Kartik’s arms still lingered on Aman’s shoulders, and neither of them were moved by self-consciousness or situational awareness to break this delirious embrace.

Still too wobbly and oxygen-deprived to let go of the support this potentially perilous posture afforded them, they both grasped at the easy banter-shaped escape hatch. They both opened their mouths to conjure whatever might ease the awkwardness, at the same moment, and immediately shut them, seeing that the other might do it instead. This coordinated fish-like gaping only contributed towards reopening their giggle-vaults, from which they had barely just recovered. This time, before Aman could bury himself again or push away from Kartik’s softly undulating but firm chest, Kartik’s forehead sought extra support by leaning down to rest against the top of Aman’s.

The giggles subsided as the unprecedented proximity of their mingled breaths dawned on them, all too slowly, paralyzing them both as entirely too many warring instincts began to tug at them. They were torn between a fragile silence, heavy with barely contained desire, and words that would snap the thread of that restraint. Between an urge to escape again to the dreamscape, the secret of the entrance still lingering in their peripheral vision, and another urge to claim the irresistible dream, hovering on their shallow breaths, right where they stood. Between the fear of being seen by sprites of hatred lurking in the crowds, and the fear of the devastating maws of emptiness that were salivating to consume them the moment they stepped out of their lingering embrace. 

_“Kartik? Yeh waali galti…kuchh zyada_ public _nahi ho raha hai?_ Jail _mein chakki peesing karne ka irada hai kya?”,_ Aman whispered, breathily and haltingly, feeling himself about to lose all of the above battles. _(“Kartik? Aren’t we making this mistake…a little too publicly? Do you intend on grinding the mill in jail?”)_

Kartik’s head snapped up, ready with what Aman could almost be certain would be some righteous retort, in defense of their willful temptation of jail-time. Before he could respond, however, some flotsam of the indifferent press of pedestrians bumped into Kartik’s shoulder, dislodging his circling arms around Aman. Relieved that he wasn’t the one to break the spell, but disappointed that the spell was broken at all, Aman finally gave in to his postponed panic and pushed gently away from the cuddly cocoon that was Kartik Singh. 

_“Tu kuchh…kehne wala tha?,”_ asked Aman, gathering some semblance of composure _. (“You were about to…say something?”)_ It was twice now that Kartik had tried to speak and either chosen not to or been rudely interrupted. Even Aman could tell that three strikes against Kartik Singh having his say would be courting disaster. Aman just hoped his involuntary, tell-tale pause didn’t betray his greater interest in what Kartik was about to do, rather than say, before Aman’s inhibitions and the quantum physics of crowded streets prevailed.

Kartik did indeed look miffed, whether at his trusty ride or at the heedless pedestrian who was long gone, Aman couldn’t be sure. With a heavy, resigned sigh and a searching look down the street, however, Kartik said, _“Bas yahi ki paas mein ek mechanic ka dukaan hain. Lekin agar tujhe nikalna hai, toh…”,_ he trailed off, unable to let himself vocalize the apparently unthinkable. _(“Just that there is a mechanic shop near here. But if you need to get going, then…”)_

 _“Toh kya? Mera kaunsa kaam para hua hai. Chal, main bhi dekhoo kaise maanti hai meri sautan”_ said Aman, hurrying to fill Kartik’s hesitant pause, eager to prevent the same unthinkable reality from taking shape, even theoretically. _(“Then what? It’s not like I have anything going on. Let’s go, I am curious to see how your mistress comes off her fit of rage.”)_ This had the desired effect of Kartik exhaling deeply from relief and his eyes regaining some of its habitual twinkle at the renewed possibility of exploring new frontiers between them.

When they reached said auto-shop, they were greeted by exuberant greetings such as _“Arre, Kartik-bhaiyya!”_ and an irrepressibly amused chortling of _“Dhanno phir se naraaz ho gayi kya?”_ _(“Did Dhanno get mad at you again?”)_. Aman thought it was safe to assume that the workers within were either part of Baldev’s flock, or at least fixtures in Kartik’s own garden of cherished saplings. Regardless, Kartik emerged from a frenzy of hugs and ruffled hairs and teasings after an eternity with the grudging decision to leave the bike at the shop overnight for the boys to care and shower affection on her the way Kartik had so criminally neglected to do all day. 

By the time Kartik did emerge, though, he found Aman yawning, struggling against the exhaustion of the day and the soporific pull of a bellyful to keep from dozing off where he stood, just outside the shop. Kartik’s face bore a horrified and beleaguered look of one caught between two objects of affection, each of whom reached for slumber as a form of punishment for being denied even a moment’s attention in favor of the other.

 _“Chai peeyega ya coffee?”_ , Aman asked, in an attempt to soothe a visibly frazzled Kartik, but also to seize a rare opportunity to take control of the next phase of their evening. _(“Will you drink tea or coffee?”)_

 _“Teri haalat dekh ke lag raha hai bas coffee hi chalega”_ , Kartik chuckled, relieved that he didn’t have to entertain the notion of letting Aman go once again. _(“Looks like only coffee will do for you in this condition”)_

 _“Tu yahi kahi rehta hai kya? Bataa kaha milegi kadak coffee?”_ , Aman asked looking around at the buzzing blur of people and vehicles, his drowsy eyes glazing over any tell-tale signs of the actual contents of any of the endless shops, much less chain coffee outlets. _(“Do you live around here? Tell me where we can get some strong coffee?”)_

Turned out, Kartik did not actually live in the neighborhood where Aman had now encountered two different clusters of Kartik’s affectionate acquaintances. The swift, tightness that accompanied the denial, reminiscent of a similar denial earlier in the evening, hinted that perhaps this neighborhood housed more than just safe havens, perhaps even the perpetrator who forced him to seek said safety. Neither of them lingered in that hint of darkness as it turned out that they both lived in the same mid-century, modern neighborhood on the other side of the city, a revelation that worked better on Aman than a syringe-full of caffeine might have.

When Aman suggested heading for his favorite neighborhood coffee-shop, a refreshingly laid-back and unassuming spot in a sea of more pretentious outlets for the same, Kartik immediately pulled out his phone to secure a cab. Aman realized belatedly that cash strapped as he was, he didn’t actually need physical money to pay for an Ola. By the time he fished his own phone out to beat Kartik to it, Kartik was already dragging him by the hand, in a confident clasp of palms now, towards the pickup spot of a confirmed ride. Slightly deflated at having lost the chance to begin leveling the debts he had been accruing today, Aman reasoned he could at least buy the coffee where credit cards were not offensive methods of payment.

Upon finding the right nondescript compact vehicle, Aman followed Kartik into the back seat, slamming the door closed behind him, only to find himself plush up against Kartik in the middle seat. At first, Aman reasoned, it was to converse and confirm with the driver of their intended destination. But once the car got going, Kartik leaned back into the seat, slyly resting his head onto Aman’s shoulder, while simultaneously stretching his painfully folded long limbs sideways on the seat towards the other door.

The cramped setting and the proximity to the driver immediately activated Aman’s panicky perimeter check, scoping out any wayward glances not just from the driver but also from pedestrians walking too close to the vehicle. He wasn’t entirely satisfied by the driver’s stony indifference to their presence, much less their questionable position. But he found that a combination of drowsiness and the comforting weight of Kartik’s head, so close to his racing heart, somewhat eased his uncontrolled descent into anxious spiraling. Before he could slide the rest of the way into that particular void, Kartik’s head nuzzled into Aman’s neck to catch his attention. When Aman’s frantic gaze met Kartik’s eyes, glazed with an invitation Aman was in no state to indulge in, Kartik murmured next to his ear, _“Abhi itne traffic mein ek-der ghanta lagne waala hai, tu kuchh der aaram se aankhey band kar le. Bohut thaka lag raha hai.”_ _(“It’s going to take an hour to an hour and a half in this traffic. You go ahead rest your eyes for a little bit. You look exhausted.”)_ His breath tickled one of Aman’s vulnerable spots, one he didn’t want to risk Kartik making more direct contact with just yet. 

_“Yeh thakaan nahi, saale, ghabrahat hai, tujhe dhang se baithna nahi aata kya?”_ , said Aman, fidgeting in his pinned position against the door, jerking at the shoulder supporting Kartik’s head, forcing the taller man’s head to snap up. _(“It’s not exhaustion, man, it’s anxiety. Don’t you know how to sit properly?”)_

 _“Ghabrane ki koi zaroorat nahi hai, main kaafi comfortable hu. Tu aankhein band kar, aur saans le saaaansss”,_ Kartik said, with exaggeratedly gesticulating his graceful hands, like a conductor attempting to orchestrate Aman’s deep breaths. _(“There’s no need to worry, I am quite comfortable. You close your eyes, and take a deep breath, deeeeep breeeaaath”)_ Despite his irritation at Kartik’s intentional obliviousness, Aman did find his eyes and lungs obeying the maestro Kartik. As his breathing and heart rate began to drop below the point where he could hear them pounding and grating in his ears, Aman also became aware of Kartik slowly settling into the cove of Aman’s neck and collarbone, his fluffy mane lazily tickling other forbidden zones of Aman.

Before he could find it in himself to protest again, Aman’s closed eyes and assisted breathing had melted away the reasons for any protest. All that remained was the entirely too welcome weight of what was missing from every other restless sleep of his life. Aman slipped as effortlessly into a deep slumber as Kartik slipped his hand into Aman’s. His last thought before oblivion was that his physical being was now safely tethered in their shared waking dream, even as his mind might be temporarily lost to dreams and nightmares beyond Kartik’s reach.

When Aman woke, the cab’s relatively unimpeded velocity hinted that they might be going over one of the many Delhi flyovers, bridging the lumbering distances between the city’s many polarizing faces and eras and realities. His freshly woken bleariness, however, could not confirm this suspicion since the world outside seemed smudged by a passing spell of rain. He wondered if he was awakened by the rain, whimsically tinkling against the cab window where his head rested, or if it was the realization that something important was missing from his side.

Once he had surreptitiously checked for any traitorous trail of sleepy drooling, Aman found that Kartik had finally moved to occupy the other end of the backseat. He had replaced his head and hands, with his stretched legs on Aman’s lap as the tether to their shared bubble of unreality. Aman’s stealthy drool check seemed to have worked, because Kartik, with his headphones in his ears, continued to stare at the rain-smudged world outside, soundlessly mouthing along words of whatever song he was listening to. Aman held his breath, afraid to break the stillness of this vision by betraying his wakeful state. The effort to contain himself, however, did give way to some unconscious twitch in his limbs, which Kartik’s own resting limbs picked up, returning his gaze to Aman’s mercifully drool-free face.

Aman couldn’t imagine what kind of a vision he himself cut in Kartik’s eyes. Sleep still lingered heavily in his eyelids and a mosaic of numbness spread across his muscles, in no rush to match the wakeful hyper-awareness of his mind. Despite having noticed that Aman was awake, Kartik had made no move to speak to him or resume his earlier position. Instead, he continued to quietly lip-sync silently to a song unheard by Aman, with a wistful smile in his eyes, savoring the secret of the lyrics. And just like that every last cell of Aman’s body came awake to the awareness of being sung to by Kartik Singh, despite not being able to hear the melody or the words. Music had a funny way of being heard anyway.

Impatient under the brunt of that look and the teasing enigma of the silent serenade, Aman pointed to his ear and motioned to ask what Kartik was listening to. As if he’d been waiting for the question, Kartik jostled closer, his legs still in Aman’s lap, offering up one of his earbuds to share with Aman. When Aman reached out to accept, Kartik ignored Aman's hand, reaching across to hold up the offered earbud to Aman's ear himself. It was curious that he chose the ear furthest from him, forcing Aman to keep his head turned towards Kartik, lest the other earbud fall out of Kartik's own ear. The lyrics in English greeted Aman with the same haunting languor as Kartik’s remaining fingertips gently resting on Aman’s cheek.

_“… the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song_

_It's for people like you that keep it turned on_

_So excuse me forgettin', but these things I do_

_You see, I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue,"_

Aman’s familiarity with western music was limited to more or less whatever contemporary pop or modern rock his more urbane friends and colleagues took upon themselves to “educate” him in from time to time. If this happened to be during the wee hours of a party, when he was feeling buzzed enough, Aman would vaguely head-bop to gratify his current self-appointed benefactor, retaining no memory of it after. But Aman rarely felt any emotional connection to the words the way he did with the Hindi ballads of old. The dreamy drawl and raw yearning in the voice and the words of this song, however, carried an unknowable weight and intimacy. Especially since a particularly whimsical guitar riff set Kartik off to sing along with the words,

“ _Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean_

_Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen”_

It didn’t escape Aman that it was the second time Kartik had complimented his eyes tonight, albeit through the words of a stranger who felt so familiar despite sounding so foreign. Aman found said eyes dropping as quickly as the blush that climbed up his cheeks and ears. But Kartik wasn’t going to stand for his serenade to be lost on its subject, repositioning the hand holding the earphones, to cup Aman’s cheek more decisively, reclaiming Aman’s direct gaze. The wobbly earphones miraculously conspired to stay in, as the velvety tenor of a distant Englishman in one ear mingled with the lilting depths of Kartik’s voice in his other ear, inched ever closer with words borrowed from afar, as a gift and a question,

_“And you can tell everybody this is your song_

_It may be quite simple but now that it's done_

_I hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I put down in words_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world”_

The chorus repeated, with punctuated clanging of the cymbals and a sincere vocal flourish, to ask Kartik’s leave of Aman for him, as Kartik’s eyes closed and his lips met Aman’s, in an imploring invitation to let him in. Aman froze but only for a fleeting moment, registering the softness of Kartik’s lips, as their electrifying, barely-restrained hunger was slowly but surely betrayed by their deepening press.

“ _I hope you don't mind_

_I hope you don't mind_

_That I put down in words_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world.”_

Despite what should have been a chilling awareness of a third presence in such close quarters, Aman did not refrain from parting his lips, just enough to extend a gripping invitation of his own. As the song's refrain played on, Kartik melted eagerly into Aman’s entreaty, releasing a small, sighing moan of surprise. Encouraged by Aman’s response, Kartik brought up both his hands to grasp Aman’s cheeks, both thumbs effortlessly sliding into the nooks behind Aman’s ears, that held the sacred secret to his undoing. This startled some desperately muted, formless noises of his own to escape, and as the wordless instruments whimsically closed out the song, Aman realized he did not mind, in the least, he did not mind any of this, at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They kissed, and then...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dearies,  
> I did not mean to stay away for so long. Real-world and real-life demanded I take a breather from spinning a tale of romance. And then it became harder and harder to write a complete chapter that was worth the wait. So here's a short one, which is only the first third of what I had planned for this chapter. It's not much, it's not the greatest, but it's something after entirely too long of nothing.  
> Do let me know if you're still reading?  
> ~ M

The kiss was over too soon and not soon enough. They didn’t stop to sing along when the song in their ears moved on to a more familiar beseeching of _“Kuchh Na Kaho, Kuchh Bhi Na Kaho.”_ Even as a part of Aman’s mind registered the serendipity of the lyrics, it’s a measure of his cerebral disarray that what should have been a chuckle of irony, changed course halfway into a needy sigh.

Nor did they stop as the music fell away with the forgotten, tentative bridge of headphones between them. Not that Aman and Kartik needed to be reminded that they were in a time and silence of their own making. For the first time on this fateful day, their banter was wordless, even if their mouths still luxuriated in each other’s company after a fashion.

The musical boundaries of their reality had been replaced with the steady sizzle of the car making its way across the city’s wet roads. That static white noise was all the music they needed to maintain the crackling blaze of reckless abandon between them.

Aman didn’t remember closing his eyes. He had been transfixed by the soft surrender in Kartik where there had only been edgy seduction or dramatic intensity before. Behind closed eyes though, Aman was blinded by an electric maelstrom. The coolness of Kartik’s rings pressed along Aman’s neck, collided with the fiery trail left by Kartik’s tongue, lazily tracing Aman’s lips. Aman did not dare upset this delicate storm, either by reaching for more or pulling away. He only savored and he shivered. 

Time and reality made a cruel comeback when the driver swerved sideways across many slippery lanes of traffic to exit the flyover. Neither the disorientation from the abrupt movement of the vehicle nor Aman’s head bumping into the window, rather forcibly, had been enough for them to stop. However, the stomach-lurching explosion of curses from the driver broke not only the stony silence between them thus far but also shattered the solitude of their moment.

Aman’s conditioned instincts got to the swift and efficient work of shoving both Kartik’s torso and legs off himself, with the full force of both his hands. He frantically checked the angle of the rear-view mirror, only to realize that they were on the wrong end of the cab to be seen by the driver. Moreover, the slowly abating mutterings of the driver revealed that even his non-silent ire was directed at rain visibility, supremely and consistently indifferent to the happenings of the world of the backseat.

By the time it occurred to him to check on Kartik, the damage was already done. The look of tempered disappointment Aman had come to expect in Kartik’s eyes during Aman's abortive reality checks was now missing. Instead, there was now a steely outrage, with no hint of performative exaggeration. Aman felt all the warmth and levity he had accumulated throughout the day rush back out of him towards the source, who was now quickly retreating from Aman, creating a palpably enormous distance even in the cramped backseat of a cab.

The cold sweat, that Aman had postponed after realizing the driver had seen nothing, finally began to trickle down his spine. All at once Aman felt the jarring violence of his knee-jerk reaction. How could he run so far away from all the things he thought kept him from being whole and still manage to sabotage his best foot forward on the road towards a conviction of his own self. He kept stumbling, never knowing whether to look back at what he was running from, or to look forward to what he was marching towards.

There had been narrow misses all day where Aman’s skittishness had almost cost him Kartik’s company, but none that weren’t salvaged by small course corrections in the natural ebb and flow between them. They had started the day as strangers after all, and perhaps Kartik, in his characteristic and cheerful magnanimity had written up Aman’s minor standoffishness as unavoidable stumbles in breaking new ground. Stumbles that Kartik could see and understand because unlike Aman, he only had eyes for the road and destination ahead, and did not even dare acknowledge the demons lurking behind his broad shoulders.

Before Aman could think of an appropriate apology or excuse, Kartik resumed the position that Aman had found him in when he woke. Nestled in the corner furthest from him, with the key differences being Kartik’s closed eyes, faking an attempt to nap, arms folded defensively against his chest, and legs folded in a painful bend so as not to even accidentally graze any part of Aman’s. Unlike moments before, when Aman had shivered at the creeping warmth created between them, Kartik’s tense withdrawal left Aman shivering as if suddenly afloat in the cold vacuum of space.

Aman couldn’t blame Kartik for perceiving this new affront on Aman’s part as a truly thoughtless and visceral rejection. What Aman couldn’t fathom, however, was why it left him with a crushing guilt of betrayal. What loyalties could have already arisen and settled between them, that carried the weight of an understanding of many years or lifetimes.

It isn’t as if Aman had never been kissed or flirted with so egregiously before. Sure, Aman could do better in terms of self-esteem and acceptance, but it isn’t as if he was entirely unaware of his own understated charm. Some of his guardedness was not a product of shame but one of carefully curated mystique for the right kind of starry-eyed adventurer. As he stared over at Kartik’s closed-off presence mournfully, Aman realized that perhaps the difference was that this time felt less like a jaded curiosity of half-hearted attempts, but more like the expected unexpectedness of a quest coming to a fateful end.

If Kartik felt the weight of Aman’s beseeching eyes, he didn’t let on. But Aman drew the tiniest of comforts in noting that he had neglected to put his earphones back in. Enough to seize upon the outer limits of his recklessness to shift in his seat, allowing for his leg to slide as inconspicuously as possible to rest against Kartik’s. Kartik didn’t flinch or withdraw from the renewed contact, either because he had no more room to move or because he was patiently curious for Aman to do the heavy lifting for once. Whatever the reason, Aman’s chest felt a little lighter and he allowed himself to luxuriate in the momentary micro-success.

As the moments dragged on, Aman might have begun imagining what he desperately hoped for, as he sensed the most imperceptible thawing of Kartik’s rigid features. The disproportionate relief and hope of the moment moved him to draw as much courage as he could from the single point of contact to do the remaining insurmountable task of redemption. Aman nudged his knees into Kartik’s in a slow distracted rhythm, and asked, _“Woh…gaana kaafi khubsoorat tha, maine pehle kabhi suna nahi._ Singer _kaun hai?”_ _(“That…song was really beautiful, I’d never heard it before. Who’s the singer?”)_ When Aman finally found Kartik’s eyes on him again, he suspected it was the foolproof Kartik playbook tactic of insistent physical badgering that really did the job.

 _“_ Elton John _. Angrez hai._ Gay _hai. Apna poora jism lagakar gaata hai,”_ Kartik responded in clipped bursts, not letting up on his affront easily, but he couldn’t help himself from throwing in a shoulder shimmy at the last bit. _(“Elton John. He’s English. He’s gay. Uses his whole body to sing”)_ For Aman, the name conjured televised images from his foggy childhood memories of a short, squat man, banging his grief out on a piano, lamenting the tragic loss of a distant princess. Aman couldn’t quite reconcile that with Kartik’s description of someone who sounded more like an exotic bird rather than a familiar, lovelorn soul whose heart had bled directly into Aman’s own veins, in memories both distant and recent.

 _“Jism ka pata nahi, lekin poore dil se gaa raha tha, itna zaroor ehsaas ho raha tha. Kyun, uska jism awaaz ki tarah_ hot _hai kya?”_ Aman teased, hoping the bottom hadn’t fallen out of their baseline banter. _(“I don’t know about his body, but I could feel he was singing with his whole heart. Why, is his body as hot as his voice?”)_

 _“Kisi zamaane mein shayad tere jaisa_ cute _raha hoga. Abhi apne pati aur do bachhon ke saath hum gareebon ke sapnon ka misaal hai. Tujhe uski awaaz_ hot _lagi?”_ Kartik asked, with a forced flatness that belied the unmistakable battle the corner of his lips and eyes were losing, keeping a chuckle from bursting forth. _(“Once upon a time he must have been as cute as you are. Now with his husband and two children he is a shining example for the rest of our dreams. You think his voice is hot?”)_

Aman felt something untangle in him with the knowledge that there was happiness at the end of the road for the voice that had echoed Aman’s own wistful longing, despite the dash of hopelessness. He let himself stare back at Kartik finding that he didn’t care to diminish the gift of that knowledge with a joke, nor attempt to express feelings that Elton was not around to adequately set words and melodies to.

 _“Theek tha, lekin tere awaaz se zyada nahi…,”_ Aman said with a shrug of exaggerated nonchalance. _(“It was alright, but it wasn’t better than yours…”)_ Something eased in his chest as Kartik gave in to a small and shy chuckle, which did not distract Aman from noticing the warm rush of color creeping up Kartik’s long, pale neck.

As the silence stretched, the gulf between them shrank. And before long, Kartik had imperceptibly moved his torso closer to Aman, but instead of resting on his self-designated spot on Aman’s shoulder, he rested on the seat-back just next to it. Aman felt a guilty twinge at the thought that perhaps Kartik couldn’t quite trust Aman to not reach for a violent denial once again.

Kartik’s eyes, however, seemed to be drinking in whatever Aman was radiating with a desperate despair of someone who didn’t want to take any part of the proximity for granted. Aman searched those eyes for signs of doubt, put there by his own careless rebuffing. But all he found was a patient and open tenderness, so unexpected and beyond what he believed he deserved, Aman thought he might drown in it and yet wash up on a shore he never dared dream of. 

Wordlessly, Aman reached over and grabbed one of the dangling headphones, jerking his head slightly, indicating that he was ready to surrender to the music once again. Kartik blinked a little in momentary surprise before flooding the re-established bridge between them with the dulcet notes and tones of the previously interrupted Bollywood ballad.

Aman rested his head on the seat-back to face Kartik’s directly, and silently mouthed an apology. Kartik allowed a smile to blossom its way up to his eyes, slowly blinking a gracious forgiveness. Even as Kartik maintained the remaining space between them, a relieved Aman felt his own face mirror the journey of that beautiful slow smile in gratitude and gratification.

And when the refrain of _“Kuchh Na Kaho, Kuchh Bhi Na Kaho”_ came back around, Kartik proceeded to mime the lyrical instructions by gently putting his index finger to Aman’s lips, and shaking his head. The rest of the car ride was Aman abiding by the command of wordlessness, giddily limiting himself to silent giggling at Kartik’s interpretative performance. As easy as it had been to eagerly surrender to the command of silence lost in a kiss, he now treasured the vision of a musically miming Kartik, re-animated for Aman's eyes only. For all was well and all manner of things would be well. For as long as the music flowed between them, there would always be night enough left for them to keep dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for hanging in there with me, despite the long break and a less than stellar comeback. If it helps, I do have a new multi-chapter fic in the works after I finish this one. I promise I won't be gone over a month before finishing up the next bits.  
> And if we haven't already found each other on the fandom Insta-wanderings already, hit me up if you'd like @lalunelunatique


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